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CONTENTS COPVRIONTEB 1936 



JUNE 1936 



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That’s exactly what we mean! No 
Money Down — Not one cent in 
advance — No C. O. D. to pay 
on arrival! All we ask you to do 
is to examine any of these values 
for TEN DAYS at our expense. After 
full free inspection, if you agree 
with us that our style and quality 
values challenge duplication by cash 
or credit jewelers anywhere, take 



2 Diamond 

baguette 

Now only 



Royal offers you the most liberal credit terms 
without any embarrassment! No red tape — 
No direct inquiries — No interest or extras. 
Just send us your name and address and a few 
personal facts such as age, occupation, etc. 
(if possible mention 1 or 2 business refer* 
ences:) All dealings strictly confidential. 
After 10 DAYS FREE TRIAL — pay the 
10 equal, easy monthly payments, stated 
under eacn article, without Further obligation. 



eainlincd 



men. Loo** ! ! 

17 Jewel 
WALTHAM 

k HoW only 



Your satisfaction is always assured when you 
buy at Royal. A written guarantee — fully 
backed by ROYAL — America’s ^Largest 
Mail Credit Jewelers — accompanies every 
ring or watch purchased from us giving you 
absolute protection. 



Hew 32 page 
<<BOOK OF GEMS’' 



Hundreds of special 
values In genuine 
blue-white diamonds, 
standard watches, fine 
Jewelry, silverware, 
cameras, radios and ^ 
gift novelties. Each | 
fully described and jSt 
pictured. Adults send 
foryourcopy to-day I M 



ncluded free! 

111 ' P'itted with hn'' 
-A^ 7 Pi No Money 



Genuine 

e.e lor on, 



Handsome 

I A.Z - Where coul( 

to match r 

now offers this S37 o 

oniy S2.48 a month 



17 Jewel 
WALTHAM 
Outfit ^ 



Complete 



$1.98 a month 



£1 for Both 

$2.79 a month 
5 Diamonds 

LA-3 . . . “LADY DIANE” DUO — 
exquisitely matched engagement and 
wedding ring en.semble of beautifully 
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specially selected, dazzling genuine 
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gagement ring is made even more 
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on each side; the wedding ring is 
exquisitely engraved to match. No 
Monoy Down Only $2.79 a month 
for both complete. 



LA-4 ... A smart, modern, square 
prong engagement ring of high qual- 
ity at an amazingly low price. The 
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diamond is set in a richly hand en- 
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Another famous 
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10 MONTHS iE* PAY 



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ADVERTISING SECTION 




GO AHEAD, ASK YOUR BOSS WHAT HE THINKS OF YOU! 

• Tell him you really want to know, from his point of view, what he thinks about your work. 
How are you doing now and what are your chances for the future? Can he offer any suggestions 
for the improvement of your work? • Go ahead, ask him! If he refers to your lack of qualifica- 
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INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOLS 



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Without cost or obligation, please send me a copy of your booklet, “Who Wins 
and Why,” and full particulars about the subject before which I have marked X: 



□ Architect 

□ Architecturnl Draftsman 

D Buildinic Estimatias 
Q Contractor and Builder 

□ Structural Draftsman 

□ Structural Eugiceer 

□ Martagemeot of Inventions 

□ Electrical Engineer 

□ Electric Lighting 

□ Welding, Electrio and Gaa 

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n Buainces Management 
O Office Management 
Q Induatrial Management 

□ Traffic Management 
O Accountancy 

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TECHNICAL AND INDUSTRIAL COURSES 



Q Heat Treatment of Metals 

□ Sheet Metal Worker 
O Telegraph Engineer 

D Telephone Work □ Radio 

□ Mechanical Engineering 
D Mechanical Draftsman 

□ Machinist □ Toolmaker 

D Patternmaker 

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□ Automobile Mechanic 

□ Refrigeration 



D Plumbing O Steam Fitting 

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n R. R. Locomoiivea 

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D Bookkoepiog 

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D Salesmanship 

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BUSINESS TRAINING COURSES 



□ Service Station Saloemanship 

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D Business Correapondonco 

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□ Civil Service □ Mail Carrier 
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D Bridge Engineer 

□ Bridge ami Building Foreman 

□ Chemistry 

□ Pharmacy 

□ Coal Mining 
n Mine Fureman 

□ Navigation 

□ Cotton Manufacturing 

□ Woolen Manufacturing 

□ Agriculture 

□ Fruit Growing 

□ Poultry Forming 

□ Grade School Subjecte 

□ High School Sabieotd 

□ College Preparatory 

□ Illuairating 

□ Cartooning 

n Lettering Show Cards Q S'^oa 



Name Age,. 



...Address.. 



City State Present Position 

It l/oti reside in Canada, send this coupon to tke International Correspondence Schools Canadian, Limited, Montreal, Canada 



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On Sale Third Wednesday of Each Month 




A STREET & SMITH PUBLICATION 



The entire contents of this mseaxioe are protected by copyright, and must not be reprinted without the publishers' permlsaiMi. 



Novel: Table of Contents 

THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME . H. P. Lovecraft . .110 

A brilliant word picture which tceavca time, archwology, and brain 
travel into a iaecinating narrative of explorative science. 

Novelettes: 

REVERSE UNIVERSE . . .Nat Schaebner ... 8 

Mutiny on the spaccxcays is unthinkable — but it happened. And two 
men were cast adrift — to meet the strangest adventure ever experi- 
enced by Earthlings! 

GLAGULA Warner Van Lome . . 78 

Out of the search for gold — a strange discovery — o traveler from 
outer space, frozen before he moved a mile on egrth — and yet 

Short Stories: 

THE GLOWWORM FLOWER . Stanton A. Coblentz 22 

Spores clung in the seams of the space cruiser. They were scraped 
off like barnacles — and forgotten — but they grew and spun a web 
of slavery for men! 

ECCE HOMO Chan Corbett ... 56 

A picture of the remote future — when normal man remains only to 
serve the brains that are his masters — until one day 

AT THE CENTER OF GRAVITY . Ross Rocklynne . . 67 

A hole in the surface of a planet — a space policeman — his quarry — 
and an insuperable barrier to life. 

ORIGIN OF THOUGHT . . Spencer Lane . . .100 

The power of thought has been a scientific study for ages. Here 
we see Us logic carried to an ultimate conclusion. 

Serial Novel: 

THE COMETEERS (Part 2) . . Jack Williamson . . 30 

Giles Habibula once again roams the spaceways as the Earth and its 
colonies face a fearful annihilation. 

Science Feature: 

ACCURACY John W. Campbell, Jr. . 96 

The first of a fascinating series of scientific articles which will discuss 
the solar system, planet by planet. Do not miss a single article. 

Save them! 

Readers^ Department: 

BRASS TACKS (The Open House of Controversy) . . . 156 

EDITOR’S PAGE 155 

Cover Painting by Howard V. Brown 
Story illustrations by Brown, Marchioni, Schneeman, Bold, 
Thompson, Flatos 



Single Copy, 20 Cents Yearly Subscription, $2.00 

Monthly publication issued by Street &, Smith Publications. Ine., 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York. N. T. 
George C. Smith, Jr., President; Ormond V. Gould. Vice President and Treasurer; Artemae Uolmes. Vice President 
and Secretary; Clarence C. Vernam, Vice President. Copyright, 1936, by Street & Smith Publications. Inc., New 
York. Copyright. 1936. by Street & Smith Publications, Inc,, Great Britain. Entered as Second-class Matter. 
September 13, 1933, at the Post Office at New York, N. Y.. under Act of Congress of March 3, 1879. Subscriptions 
to Cuba, Dorn. Republic, Haiti, Spain. Central and South American Countries except The Ouianas and British 
Honduras, $2.25 per year. To all ether Foreign Countries, including The Gulanas and British Honduras, $2,75 per year. 
We do not accept responsibility for the return of unsolicited manuscripts. 

To facilitate handling, the author should inclose a self-addressed envelope with the requisite postage attached. 

STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS, INC., 79 7th AVE., NEW YORK, N. Y. 




ADVERTISING SECTION 




IT'S 

WONDERFUL. 
NOW you're 
ON THE WAY 

Ito success 

'S'. 




HER E*S PROOF 
that my training pays 



$3200 in 
Ono Year 
'‘^fy books 
> *1^91 show that 
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Radio sert- 
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B. I.”— J. P. WILSON. 
Box 43, Westrille. Okla^ 






More W«rk 
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1815 Barrett Ave., 
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Picked Up $t.800 While 
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TON. 14105 I^rain Aye- 
nue. Clereland, Ohio. 




MAIL THE COUPON NOW. Get the facts about Radio— 
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the coupon in an envelope, or paste it on a Ic. post card TODAY. 

J. E. SMITH. President. Dept. 6CD 
National Radio Institute. Washington* D. C. 

J. E. SMITH* President* Dept. 6CD 
National Radio Institute* Washington* D. C. 

Dear Mr. Smith: Without obligating me. send your book which points out the 
spare time and full time opportunities in Radio and your 59-50 method of training 
men at home in spare time to become Radio Experts. (J*JcQ8C write plainly) 



J. E. SMITH. President 
National Radio Institute 

The man who has di- 
rected tlie Home-Study 
Training of more men 
for the Radio industry 
than any other man in 
America. 




NAME age . 

ADDRESS 

CITY STATE 



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Classified Advertising 



Patents Secured 



PATENT.S — Reasonable terms. . Book and advice free. L. F. 
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Detectives — Instructions 



DETECTIVES EARN BIG MONEY. Work home or travel. 
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Diesel 



Now 13 your chance to get into a big new industry and grow up 
with it to an important position. Today there is practically no competition in 
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the latest Diesel developments— two- and four-stroke 
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Get our Free Piesel Booklet and 6nd out what: 
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■American School, Dept. D-57, Drexel Avenue at 58th Street, Chicago, lilinois- 



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ADVERTISING SECTWN 



NEVER TOOK A 
USSON FROM 
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LEARN TO PLAY 
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ELrCTRICITYS» 



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Harley'Davidson Motor Co. , Dept. SS. Milwautee, Wis. 
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My age is □ 16-19 years. '□ 20-30 years. □ 31 years 
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ADVERTISING SECTION 



^ Price 



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Address 

Town State 





OQ. approval. Just mail the coupon and we'il send you 
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Over 300 pages on DIESEL Engines 

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1 w<>iild like to aee the new 6-volume edition ef your AUTO BOOKS. I wQI pay 
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-ultiog neiniMrabip aa per your offer above. Send brand new 1836 edition. 

Name 

Addreve 

City State 

^ Ita.-h l••ttcr atating are. occupation and name end addresa cl ciuplcycr and at leaat 
i ce buiiutaa men se relcienoe. 



KAc' 






AMERICAN TECHNICAL SOCIETY 

Drexel Avesue & 58th St, Dent. AS319, Chicago, II). 




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They were resting on the surface of a fantastic, 
unbelievable world. Surface? Rather the concavity 
of the inside of a shell, stretching slowly upward — 

by Nat Schachner 



T he huge space ship was travel- 
ing fast — faster than space 
ships had ever traveled before 
— so fast its speed approximated the 
limiting velocity of light. Yet to the 
crew immured within its metal hull 
there was no sense of motion, no sense 
of anything but a fixed, immutable sus- 
pension in a void that had neither form 
nor meaning. 

For the thousandth time Richard 
Talbot, first officer of the Pathfitider, 
peered through the view ports in the 
quartz-inclosed conning tower. For the 
thousandth time the monotonous, death- 
quiescent universe stared back at him, 
mocking these puny mortals who' in their 
swollen pride had sought to penetrate 
her close-held secrets. Space, black 
with a blackness unknown to Earth, en- 
shrouded them in palpable embrace. 
Against a far-flung back drop, equidis- 
tant whichever way he turned, were the 
stars, millions of them — frozen, diam- 
eterless points of light, shedding no 
luminance, unshimmering, remote. 

The spider line on the forward port 
bisected a slightly larger star, a trifle 
greater than its myriad fellows ; the 
spider line on the after port held with 
unwavering intensity on a faint, some- 
what inconspicuous glimmer of reddish 
light. At least, thought Talbot with a 
little shiver, their course was straight. 
For the little gleam behind was the Sun, 
from whence they had come, and the 
white glow ahead was Alpha Centauri, 
their destination. 



He stole a look at the other man in 
the tower. Captain John Apperson 
amazed him, now as always. He stood 
there, legs wide to sustain his power- 
ful, thickset body, hands clasped behind 
his back, staring with fixed rigidity 
through the forward port. Never once 
had Dick Talbot seen him deviate from 
this position ; never once had he turned 
his craggy head with its great shock of 
iron-gray hair and grayer beard to the 
right or to the left; never once had he 
deigned to seek with questing, homesick 
eyes the dim, faint star they had quitted 
years before. 

He was unhuman, thought Talbot, 
with a queer mixture of admiration and 
adumbrating repulsion. He was not a 
normal man with normal longings and 
hesitations. He was incredible, a piece 
with the incredible universe in which 
they seemed a moveless entity. He was 
dressed as always in the carefully spick- 
and-span, bright-blue uniform of a cap- 
tain of the solar spaceways. 

The crew had long since abandoned 
all attempts at spruceness and neatness. 
They slouched around in dungarees, 
performed their simple tasks with un- 
strung lassitude, forgetful of personal 
cleanliness and unshaven beards, spend- 
ing their interminable leisure in endless 
sleep or muttered conversation. Earth 
and all the other planets, of course, were 
invisible, had been invisible since the 
first desperate taking off from icebound, 
uninhabited Pluto. 

Talbot cleared his throat noisily. The 



10 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



captain did not seem to hear. All his 
life was concentrated in his eyes, in the 
fanatical gaze he fixed on the tantaliz- 
ing star ahead, the ever-beckoning, ever- 
remote Alpha Centauri. Sometimes the 
first officer thought privately that Cap- 
tain Apperson had gone mad with the 
dreadful space madness that occasionally 
afflicted green hands even on the com- 
paratively short interplanetary hops. 

There had already been three casual- 
ties among the crew — men who had sud- 
denly turned on their fellows scream- 
ing and amuck — one in fact had almost 
opened the air locks before he had been 
detected and killed. The three bodies, 
sewn in canvas shrouds, were now soli- 
tary bits of flotsam far behind in the 
unimaginable reaches of space. 

TALBOT cleared his throat again. 
He touched fingers to his cap. He was 
a bit resentful of that. It was the first 
time in all his ships that a commander 
had insisted on that meaningless routine 
of discipline from his first officer in 
the privacy of the conning tower. Cap- 
tain Apperson was notorious for his 
iron-bound, martinet discipline. That 
was the reason the Spaceways Explora- 
tion Council had chosen him for this 
tremendous flight into the unknown. 

“I wish to report, sir,” Dick Talbot 
said formally, “that the daily inspection 
shows all equipment to be shipshape, 
the instruments in perfect order, and 
the course undeviating.” 

“Very good, mister,” Captain .Epper- 
son growled without turning his head. 
It was an implied invitation to retire. 
But Talbot held his ground, his lean 
young jaw firm, his gray eyes snapping. 

“The mechanical equipment is all 
right, sir,” he emphasized, “but I’d like 
to talk to you about the crew. They 



Apperson’s eyes were still fanatically 
engrossed on that far-off goal, but his 
voice was icy in its interruption. “I 
believe I placed Second Officer Solon 



Fithian in charge of personnel,” he said 
deliberately. “Any reports concerning 
the crew must emanate from him.” 
Damned old martinet! Talbot raged 
to himself, but kept his voice calm. 
“I’m sorry, sir,” he insisted, “but Mr. 
Fithian does not seem to notice. There’s 
trouble brewing. The crew is scared, 
space sick, homesick if you wish. They 
feel that if we continued, not a one will 
return alive. They resent, too, the harsh 
disposition of their comrades who went 
mad. I’ve heard snatches of talk, felt 
the sullenness of their looks, seen mut- 
tering groups break up as I approach. 

I’m afraid, sir ” 

Now the captain wheeled. His eyes 
were a cold blue, icy as the waters from 
newly melted glaciers. “Mutiny is the 
word you wish to imply, isn’t it, mis- 
ter?” 

Talbot met his withering glance with 
level gaze. “Yes, sir,” he agreed. “Un- 
less something is done at once to rem- 
edy conditions, such as ” 

The old captain’s face turned a beet- 
red. His gnarled hands clenched and 
his voice was thick with passion. “You 
forget yourself, mister,” he roared. 
“Your job is navigation, and mine is to 
run this ship. I intend doing it without 
any suggestions from you or any one 
else.- Do you understand?” 

Talbot flushed under his space tan. 
“I understand,” he said steadily. “You 
are the captain and in command. But 
no captain in all the spaceway has ever 
spoken to men like that and gotten away 
with it. You’ll listen to me and like 
it, sir, even though you put me in irons 
afterward, or cast me out through an 
air lock as you did those poor fellows 
your vaunted discipline drove to mad- 
ness. Let me tell you ” 

• APPERSON’S FINGER was .stab- 
bing a button on the controls.- His face 
was apoplectic. The slide door opened 
softly behind Talbot, and a smooth, 
silky voice thrust its even thread across 



REVERSE UNIVERSE 



11 



the raging torrent of the young first 
officer’s anger. 

“Your orders, Captain Apperson?” 

Talbot whirled to face a slight, dark 
man with delicate, womanish features 
and eyes that had a queer habit of star- 
ing through their objective with un- 
focused lenses. 

“Mr. Fithian,” Apperson growled ab- 
ruptly. “I have received reports of 
grave unrest among the crew. Mutiny” 
— he laughed harshly — “was, I believe, 
the word used. You’re the personnel 
officer, mister. What have you to say ?’’ 

Solon Fithian gaped in startled fash- 
ion. His unfocused eyes roamed 
stealthily past Talbot, fixed on the 
spider line bisecting the white glow that 
was Alpha Centauri. “Why,” he de- 
clared in his soft, shocked voice, “it’s 
impossible, sir. The crew is quite con- 
tented and obedient’ sir. I haven’t had 
the slightest trouble. But who” — he 
broke off and again his glance slid pa.st 
them — “could have brought you such 
a tale?” 

“The first officer,” Apperson rum- 
bled, “your superior in command.” 

The knuckles on Talbot’s hands were 
white, but he held himself under con- 
trol. “It is a tale, Fithian,” he stated 
sharply, “that it is surprising you know 
nothing about.” 

The second officer’s left hand was be- 
hind his back, but Talbot, in the rush 
of his scorn, did not notice. Only later 
did he remember that surreptitious ges- 
ture. 

“In fact,” Talbot continued, “I called 
the condition to your attention before 
this, and you promised to investigate. 
The crew is on the verge of mutiny, 
yet you pretend to Captain Apperson 
there is nothing wrong.” 

Fithian laughed, shrill and high and 
womanish. He seemed to double up 
with laughter ; he went off in uncon- 
trollable spasms that filled the conning 
tower with beating waves of sound. 
“Stop it, mister!” the old captain thun- 



dered. “What do you mean by this 
unseemingly cackling in my presence?” 

The second officer straightened up, 
eyes gliding past Talbot with a curious 
absence of mirth; then he doubled up 
again with shrieks of wild laughter. “I 
— I’m sorry, sir, but I — I can’t help it. 
Mutiny- — that is funny, sir. Hal Ha! 
Ha! Ha-ah!” 

Apperson stepped forward, gripped 
him by the shoulder, and shook him vio- 
lently. “Have all my officers gone 
crazy?” he snapped. “Stop it, mister, 
or I’ll clap you both in irons, and run 
the ship myself.” 

The quartz-inclosed space was a wel- 
ter of rolling echoes, loud voices and 
still-screeching laughter. Thus it was 
that Talbot did not hear the approach 
of stealthy feet along the inner catwalk 
until it was too late. 

They came on with a rush, filling the 
tiny conning tower with their hulking, 
unwashed bodies. Flame projectors 
snouted in their grubby fingers — weap- 
ons that should have been under seal in 
the arms compartment — and hatred 
glared from their half-mad eyes. 

Talbot’s hand darted down toward his 
belt where his needle ray dangled, 
stopped with a jerk. A half dozen 
projectors were trained on him, ready 
to blast him out of existence. 

“That’s better,” snarled the leader, 
a big, shaggy fellow with tawny beard 
and twisted nose. “Now get over there, 
all of you. away from the control board. 
One peep or move out of any of you, 
and you’ll get a bellyful, see!” 

THE FIRST OFFICER backed 
obediently away. No sense in commit- 
ting suicide. But his lithe frame flexed 
imperceptibly, seeking an opening. 

Captain Apperson did not stir. 
“What is the meaning of this?” he de- 
manded in a terrible voice. “Get back 
to your posts, every man of you, be- 
fore I put you all in irons for the rest 
of the voyage.” 



12 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



“It is mutiny, my dear captain,” a 
silken voice purred. “Just as the faith- 
ful Talbot had tried to report to you, 
and you in your stupidity would not be- 
lieve.” Fithian moved forward like a 
cat, a sneer on his small, dark counte- 
nance. “You’ve given orders long 
enough, Apperson,” he said. “From 
now on it’s my turn.” 

Captain Apperson turned and stared 
at his erstwhile subordinate for a full 
minute. There was contempt, biting 
scorn in his stare; then he turned away 
silently, his gesture unmistakable. 

Fithian started, and his dark face 
flamed. Venomous hatred glowed in 
his eyes. "You’ve sealed your own 
fate, Apperson,” he whipped out. “I 
was going to give you a chance, but 

now All that we wanted was your 

consent to turn back. This trip of ours 
is pure suicide. Two years we’ve been 
gone, and there are more than two years 
to go. The men are going mad, one by 
one, and you’ve done nothing to stop it. 
You and .your lousy discipline!” 

“That's right,” shouted the leader of 
the mutineers. He was Marl Horgan, 
tender of the forward jets. “You treat 
us like dirt, like scum on the surface 
of Venus. We’re men and we've got 
rights. We ain’t going any farther. 
There’s just enough fuel now to turn 
around and get back to the solar sys- 
tem.” 

The old captain looked at him as if 
from an Olympian height. “Fool !” he 
said deliberately, “the lethal chamber 
awaits every man of you, back on 
Earth. You know the penalty for mu- 
tiny.” 

Horgan grinned. “It ain’t gonna be 
mutiny,” he declared meaningly. “Just 
one of those unfortunate times when 
the captain ups and dies, and the other 
officers naturally decide to give up and 
turn back. We’ll all be wearing deep 
moutning for our beloved captain; 
won’t we, mates?” i 

There was a delighted roar of mirth 



from the crowding crew. Fithian smiled 
a secretive smile. 

Apperson surveyed them calmly. He 
straightened up, brushed off his im- 
maculate uniform with a steady hand, 
buttoned the top button precisely. The 
waves of hatred that beat upon him left 
him unperturbed ; he had only the con- 
sciousness of duties well and properly 
performed. 

“If you think,” he said, “that I’m 
going to beg for my life, you’re damned 
mistaken. Get it over with.” 

The flame projectors moved upward. 
He faced them unafraid. Talbot let 
his hand drop stealthily. One swift 
tug at his belt and 

“No you don’t,” Horgan growled. 
“One move like that and you join the 
captain.” 

“You have to get rid of him, too, 
men,” Fithian said. 

THE MEMBERS of the crew looked 
at each other uneasily. Horgan’s 
seamed forehead was heavy with un- 
accustomed trouble. Talbot had been 
rather popular with the men. 

“There ain’t really any call for that, 
is there, Mr. Fithian?” Horgan asked 
almost pleadingly. “Mr. Talbot’s been 
pretty white to us fellows. We’d sort 
of hate to blast him out.” 

The crew growled assent. They were 
ordinary men, driven to cruelty by 
harsh, unyielding discipline, and a 
touch of space madness. 

Fithian’s face was sallow with fear. 
“Don’t you understand?” he cried vehe- 
mently. “Talbot alive means the lethal 
chamber for all of you back on Earth.” 

Horgan frowned heavily. “We got 
no grudge against you, Mr. Talbot,” he 
said. “Give us your word of honor you 
won’t blab on us, and we’ll let you be.” 

“Of course he’ll talk,” Fithian 
shouted hysterically, “no matter what 
he tells you now.” 

“We can trust his word,” Horgan re- 
torted confidently. “Can we, mates?” 



REVERSE UNIVERSE 



13 



“Sure can,” they flung back. 

Talbot looked at them with a wry 
smile. “Thanks for your faith in my 
given word,” he answered quietly. “It 
is not misplaced. That is why I can 
make no such promise. Furthermore, 
Captain Apperson is our commander. 
He is an honest, efficient captain. 
Whatever errors he may have commit- 
ted were not out of malice toward you 
men; they were for what he conceived 
to be the best interest of the ship. I 
am therefore compelled to share his 
fate, whatever it may be.” 

There was a hasty consultation after 
that. From where they stood, under 
vigilant guard, Talbot could hear the 
excited murmur of voices, shot through 
with Fithian’s treble and Horgan’s an- 
gry bass. Their fate depended on that 
babble of argument. 

Morgan coughed hastily. “It’s this 
way, Mr. Talbot,” he addressed himself 
to the first officer, ignoring Apperson. 
“You make it pretty hard for us.” 

“Omit the flowers and get on with 
it, Morgan,” Talbot said quietly. 

“We decided,” the rocket tender 
plunged, “to put you both off in the 
space boat. There are enough provi- 
sions stowed on board for both of you 
for six months, or thereabouts ; and 
there’s enough fuel in the rocket tubes 
at least for a landing.” 

Talbot looked him squarely in the 
eye. “You know what that means, 
Morgan : Eventual drifting to death in 
interstellar space. There’s no possible 
place in the universe we could reach 
with that supply of fuel and food.” 

The rocket tender avoided his gaze, 
shuffled his feet uneasily. “It’s the best 
we can do — that or shoving you out 
into space without a suit.” 

“That would be quicker,” Talbot re- 
torted. 

“We’ll take the space boat,” Captain 
Apperson interrupted. It had been the 
first time he had spoken since the ir- 



ruption of the mutineers. Talbot looked 
at his commander in astonishment. Had 
the man gone mad — or chicken-hearted ? 
Surely quick, merciful death was prefer- 
able to the horrors of slow, tortured 
agony in the illimitable wastes. But 
Apperson’s bearded features were as 
stony as ever. 

TALBOT watched the red jets of 
fire pierce the black curtain of space 
like lancing swords. It was spectacular ; 
it was breathtaking in its dazzling ef- 
fects, but he was not given to aesthetic 
appreciations at that particular moment. 

Slowly, the dull, almost invisible hull 
of the great space cruiser turned under 
the repeated blasts of the rocket jets. 
Space was a fan of brilliant flames. 
The tremendous maneuver required a 
hundred million miles of turning area 
and almost all the reserves of fuel to 
swing the Pathfinder on its long, back- 
ward trek to the outpost on Pluto. 

Suddenly the huge cruiser was gone, 
swallowed up in the vast emptiness of 
the universe. The two men were alone 
now; alone as no one had ever been 
since the beginning of time. Incased in 
a tiny space boat, built for emergency 
use in the comparatively crowded lanes 
and short hops of the solar system, 
abandoned in an amplitude of infinite 
space time, trillions of miles from the 
nearest star. 

Talbot turned his face from the rear 
port in despair. It was now almost a 
half hour since the prison boat had 
been cast off from the magnetic plates 
of the parent cruiser. Up to the end 
he had hoped against hope that Morgan 
and the crew might relent, that they 
still might swing back to pick them up. 

Of Fithian he had expected no such 
yielding. But there had been a cer- 
tain hunted fear, a sympathy in the 
eyes of some of the men that might 
possibly have flared into action before 
the thing was done irrevocably. 



14 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



Now, he realized dully, that last 
futile hope was gone. The great ship 
had faded from view, was even now 
fifty million miles away, speeding back 
to Earth with a plausible story con- 
cocted in the brain of Solon Fithian. 

Earth! Home! Talbot felt a lump 
in his throat as his eyes burned on that 
faint, inconspicuous prickle of light, al- 
most lost among its innumerable fel- 
lows. He thought of green fields and 
swarming cities, blessedly soothing to 
the sight after the monotonous glare of 
space. He thought of the men of the 
spaceways, brave, warm-hearted, loyal, 
whose hands had clasped his in greet- 
ing in every port of the solar system. 

He would never see them again — not 
one of them. Better to open the air 
locks and die now. It would not be 
pretty. Space suicide was a torture of 
choking lungs and bursting tissues, but 
it was over in a few minutes. He swung 
around to his fellow victim. Now that 
he thought of it, he had not heard a 
word from Apperson since they had 
both been hurriedly thrust into the 
cramped quarters of their prison ship. 

The captain turned almost simultane- 
ously with him. No emotion showed on 
his stern, bearded face. His uniform 
was still neatly buttoned, his bearing 
erect. 

“You will be good enough tq get our 
bearings, mister,” he said in precise, ex- 
pressionless tones. 

“Yes, sir,” Talbot said briefly. 

Some fifteen minutes later he lifted 
his head from the scribbled calculations 
before him. Apperson had stationed 
himself before the forward port, legs 
solidly spraddled, hands clasped behind 
his back, eyes glued in silence on the 
spider line that bisected the arrow of 
their flight. 

“We are,” observed Talbot, “almost 
equidistant between the Sun and Alpha 
Centauri — about twelve and a half tril- 
lion miles either way. Our present rate 



of speed is 158,000 miles per second, 
approximately that of the Pathfinder 
before the mutineers cast us off. Our 
directional angle is some twenty-three 
degrees minus on Plane A from Alpha 
Centauri. But what of it, captain? It 
doesn’t matter at all where we are. 
We’re hopelessly, irretrievably lost.” 

APPERSON did not turn from his 
strange vigil. “You will please con- 
fine yourself, mister, to furnishing such 
information as I require,” he snapped. 
“Be good enough to fire the right-hand 
rocket tubes until our course is true on 
Alpha Centauri.” He hesitated per- 
ceptibly, then proceeded calmly. “Mister, 
then you are to fire all rocket tubes con- 
tinuously to achieve maximum accelera- 
tion.” 

Talbot sprang to his feet. Good 
Heaven, the man was mad ! Something 
had snapped in that martinet brain at 
the imminence of death. 

“Do you realize,” he demanded, “that 
even at the limiting speed of light, we’d 
reach Alpha Centauri about two and a 
quarter years from now? We have 
provisions on hand for only six months 
■ — not to speak of the fact that the air- 
renewing apparatus on these space boats 
works properly for a period consider- 
ably less even than that. 

“Furthermore, our present speed is 
the maximum obtainable. From this 
point on the inertial lag of increased 
mass builds up rapidly and more than 
compensates for the forward thrust of 
the rockets. And granting even the 
impossible — that somehow we reach 
Alpha Centauri alive — our fuel reserves 
would have been exhausted and we’d 
have no means of navigating to a land- 
ing on any problematic planet that may 
revolve around it. 

“No,” he continued more calmly, “my 
advice as man to man — we are no 
longer superior and subordinate, mind 
you — is either to open the air locks and 



REVERSE UNIVERSE 



IS 



get it over with, or swing back to the 
solar system on the remote chance that 
some expedition has set out to follow 
in our tracks.” 

Captain Apperson swung around. 
His face was contorted with suffering, 
his eyes blazed with the fixity of mono- 
mania. 

“Give up the voyage!” he mouthed 
hoarsely. “Never! Not once in all my 
long career have I ever abandoned a 
course once set; not once have I failed 
to bring my ship through. I promised 
the council I’d get to Alpha Centauri, 
and by the eternal truths of the uni- 
verse, I intend to do just that!” He 
pounded with knotted fist on the metal 
stanchions. “Dead or alive, crash or 
no, this ship to which I have trans- 
ferred my command lands on Alpha 
Centauri — do you understand that, mis- 
ter ?” 

Talbot stared at him a moment. It 
was the broad, uniformed back of the 
captain that held his gaze. For Apper- 
son had pivoted again to his rapt im- 
mersion on that far-off sun, still only a 
point of light in the universe. 

The man was mad, of course. Talbot 
could see that quite cleanly. It would 
have been a comparatively easy matter 
to spring on him now, and tie him to 
innocuousness. But a thrill coursed 
through the young first officer. It was 
a madness so exalted, so intent on its 
ultimate goal, so imbued with passion 
and driving force and heedlessness of 
obstacles that it partook of a nobility 
akin to the gods themselves. 

For the first time he understood Ap- 
person. A lonely old man, cut off from 
his fellow officers by his fanatical devo- 
tion to what he conceived his duty, hid- 
ing his loneliness by a fiercer attention 
to details and the minutiae of djgcipline, 
hugging to his bosom with mad, secret 
pride the reputation he had achieved 
until it had become an overwhelming 
obsession. 



The mutiny must have been a ter- 
rible blow to the old man’s innermost 
being. Only one thing could salve that 
wound : getting to Alpha Centauri ! 
Even in death, a wasted, rotting corpse 
within the hurtling tomb of the space 
boat, somehow he would know that he 
had reached; and knowing, the suffer- 
ing spirit that was his would be laid to 
rest. 

“I understand,” Talbot said very 
softly. Without another word he 
moved to the control board. The 
rockets filled the chamber with their 
subdued roaring. Slowly the spider 
line on the forward port shifted over 
the stars of the universe, held fixed and 
immovable on the brighter speck. Their 
course was set on Alpha Centauri ! 

That was simple navigation. The 
next step was another matter. With a 
shrug of his shoulders Talbot fired rear 
and side rockets, forced every ounce of 
fuel into the sheathed tubes to build up 
immense acceleration. The little ship 
quivered and jerked under the terrific 
impacts. The strain on metal plates 
and welded seams rose far beyond the 
calculated safety limits. The noise was 
unendurable. 

THE VELOCIMETER moved 
slowly over the dial. One hundred and 
fifty-nine thousand, one sixty, one 
sixty-one, one hundred and sixty-two 
thousand miles per second. And there 
it held, in spite of the reckless pumping 
of fuel, in spite of Talbot’s utmost skill 
in navigation. Lorentz’s theorem held 
good ! At extremely high velocities the 
inertial mass approaches the infinite so 
rapidly that not all the thrusting power 
in the world can compensate for it. 
And Talbot knew it. 

Somberly he turned to Apperson. 
“You see,” he said, “the thing is im- 
possible. We cannot fight the laws of 
nature.” 

“Nature be damned !” the old man 



16 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



barked. “Feed more fuel into the tubes. 
We must break through the speed of 

light if — if ” For the first time he 

faltered, felt the slow paralysis of 
doubt. 

“If we are to make Alpha Centauri 
before we die,” Talbot gently completed 
the sentence for him. He saluted with 
formal gesture. “I beg to report, sir, 
that the fuel tanks are dry.” 

They were still driving ahead at con- 
stant speed. Newton’s First Law of 
Motion took care of that. In the tre- 
mendous emptiness of interstellar space 
the gravitational forces of the universe 
are extremely feeble and tend to bal- 
ance themselves to a state of equilib- 
rium. Allowing, as Talbot had done, 
for the proper motion of the star to- 
ward which they were heading, they 
would reach their objective. But they 
would reach it in not less than two years 
— a year and a half too late ! 

Captain Apperson was suddenly old 
and shrunken. All his life he had been 
a practical navigator, with the practical 
man’s fine scorn of the theoretical sci- 
entists. Mathematics, abstruse reason- 
ing, he left to his first officers. That 
was their business; his was to run a 
ship, to enforce iron discipline. 

He had heard, of course, of the limit- 
ing velocity of light, but it meant noth- 
ing to him. It had never been tried out 
in practice. The interplanetary lanes 
did not readily lend themselves to such 
enormous speeds. “Give me a clear 
road and plenty of fuel,” he had always 
argued, “and I’ll build you up speed of 
half a million, a million miles a second 
if necessary. What’s there to stop it?” 

Now, for the first time," he was face 
to face with the reality. And it had let 
him down. A cherished illusion that 
he had hugged to himself during years 
of space travel had e.xploded. He was 
frightened. Were all the other iron 
laws of his being but similar illusions? 
He shrank from that, affrighted. 



Then he straightened. Very slowly, 
very methodically, he brushed his im- 
maculate uniform. At least one illusion 
must be preserved. Let the universe 
itself know that one thing at least 
within its confines was invariant. Cap- 
tain John Apperson always reached his 
goal. What matter if physically he 
were dead ; somewhere, far off or near, 
his spirit would know ! Once more he 
was the autocrat of the spaceways, lis- 
tening to his subordinate’s report. 

“Very good, mister, he replied with 
rigid formality. “Keep her to her 
course.” 

Talbot felt suddenly very tender to 
this lonely old man. He had sensed the 
terrific struggle in that uniformed 
bosom. Death meant nothing in the 
face of such an indomitable spirit. He 
saluted again. “Yes, sir.” 

THEY did not speak much after that 
these two, but a sense of kinship held 
them close. Days on weary days of 
Earth time passed and fled. Time held 
no further meaning, nor did space. 
They were a seemingly moveless 
ball suspended in the infinite void. 
The glittering back drop of stars 
mocked at them and showed no change. 

Talbot checked over their supplies. 
They placed themselves on ironclad ra- 
tions of food and drink. Even so they 
could not survive over six months. He 
tested the air renewal machinery, tight- 
ened leaks, gained maximum efficiency. 
Perhaps that too would carry on for a 
similar period. And all the time Apper- 
son held to his eternal vigil at the for- 
ward port, seeking ever with hot, de- 
vouring eyes that infinitely remote 
point of light that had become a chal- 
lenge to death itself, to the very mean- 
ing of the universe. 

The days grew into weeks, the weeks 
into months. The velocimeter showed 
even speed — one hundred and sixty-two 
thousand miles per second. The pointer 

AST— 1 



REVERSE UNIVERSE 



17 




seemed frozen in its place. Yet here, 
in the frightened reaches of space, it 
was the quiescence of death — not even 
the slowest crawl of a worm on that 



practiced to conserve the air supply. 
Good Heaven! He must not think! 
That way lay space madness ! 

Then it happened. One second the 
after port had been clear, and space a 
spangle of innumerable stars. The next 
moment blackness enshrouded the 
quartzite lens, a blackness that was im- 
penetrable, the very nadir of nothing- 
ness. 

Talbot sprang up with a cry of alarm. 
In that instant the space boat bumped. 



far-off, tiny planet they had almost for- 
gotten — 

Talbot sat on his accustomed chair. 
They had just finished their very sim- 
ple meal of condensed pellets. They 
were constantly hungry now, but that 
did not matter. Apperson was at his 
interminable watch at the forward port. 
Talbot stared back at the place where 
'Ire Sun should be. It was impossible 
to see it any more. 

He sat and stared at the blur of stars. 
His clean, chiseled features were lined 
now and a bit haggard. It was not 
easy to do this day after day, knowing 
too well the inevitable end. If it had 

not been for the old captain He 

took a deep breath, forgetting for the 
moment the shallow breathing they had 

AST— 2 



There had been three casualties 
now — men who turned, sud- 
denly, crazily 



18 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



shivered all over as if it had struck an 
invisible reef in the mid-emptiness of 
space. Out of the corner of his eye 
Talbot saw Apperson wheel, eyes wide 
with surprise. Then there was a tre- 
mendous crash, and the waters of ob- 
livion flowed over his head. 

HE AWOKE with nothing more 
than a slight headache. For the mo- 
ment nothing seemed changed. The in- 
terior glowed with its normal cold-light 
illumination, everything appeared in its 
proper place. Nothing was damaged. 
What had happened then ? He wrin- 
kled his brow in puzzlement. Ah, yes, 
he remembered! The strange, sudden 
blanking out of space, the shattering 
bump, unconsciousness. But what had 
it Ijeen? Certainly there had been no 
meteor in space, no planet or star. 
Their instruments would have warned 
them of that. 

He sat up. Captain Apperson had 
staggered to his feet, was looking at 
him intently, with queer, affrighted 
eyes. Why? He felt all right — noth- 
ing wrong, no injury, no hurt. Then 
why 

A scared, choking sensation over- 
whelmed him. He uttered a strangled 
cry. Great Heavens ! What was the 
matter with the old captain? He stood 
there,, as he had always stood, nothing 
changed, nothing 

With a bound Talbot was on his 
feet, eyes popping. That medal on Ap- 
person’s uniform, the one he kept bur- 
nished always and treasured as his life! 
It had been given to him by the Plan- 
etary Council for a particularly gallant 
rescue chi the danger zone of the as- 
teroids. It rested, securely fastened, 
on the right breast of his uniform! 

Nothing extraordinary in that, surely, 
even though Apperson, the soul of or- 
der and accustomed wont, always wore 
it on the left. But the inscription 
thereon, that Talbot knew by heart, had 



seen countless times — FOR VALOR 
ON THE SPACEWAYS— was a 
jumble of strange symbols now. Dazed, 
unbelieving, the answer dawned in Tal- 
bot’s unwilling brain. The inscription 
was reversed ; the very letters them- 
selves read backward; as if — as if it 
were a mirror image of the true 
medal. 

“You’ve noticed it, too,” the old man 
said hoarsely. “Thank Heaven, then I 
am not mad !” 

Talbot gaped at him. He understood 
now why Apperson had seemed so 
strange, so abnormally wrong. Little 
tilings, ordinarily not noted, yet sunk 
deep in the subconscious by daily asso- 
ciation, marred the ideal symmetry of 
the human form, differentiated between 
left and right — moles, scars, part of 
hair, arch of eyebrows, contours of 
nose. Captain Apperson had been re- 
versed! Left was right, and right was 
left, even as the medal on his breast. 
He was the mirror image of him- 
self ! 

“You, too,” groaned the old man. 
“Everything else ! Look !” 

It was true. Apparatus that had been 
on the right stood now to the left, the 
after port had exchanged places with 
the forward port, the control board 

Talbot jumped, peered in astonish- 
ment. The gauges read from right to 
left, as in ancient Hebrew script, but 
it was not that. The velocimeter had 
caught his incredulous eyes. The 
needle had lunged far over the rever.sed 
figures of the scale, was quivering with 
ecstatic pressure against the guard at 
the farther end. The land printed figure 
was the limiting speed of light. If the 
instrument did not lie, they were trav- 
eling at a rate far in excess of that 
ultimate speed which the universe it- 
self had seemed to set on man’s utmost 
efforts. 

Talbot seized the commander’s arm 
in a grip that bit deep with excitement. 



REVERSE UNIVERSE 



19 



His voice was awed. “Do you know 
what has happened?” he demanded. 

Apperson was still examining him 
with puzzled eyes. “I can’t say that I 
do,”_ he muttered, shaking his shaggy, 
reversed head. 

“This means,” the young man ex- 
plained rapidly, “that all our theories 
have been wrong — utterly, completely 
wrong. Somewhere in the universe, 
perhaps in another time, another space, 
beyond the reaches of our most power- 
ful telescope, a superforce of unimag- 
inable intensity burst the bonds of space 
time. 

“Something was caught in this huge 
flux of force — a planet, a sun, a whole 
universe perhaps — and catapulted into 
mighty acceleration. The inertial lag 
built up, rapidly approached the infinite. 
But the irresistible force was not to be 
denied. It hurtled the infinite ma.ss 
over the limiting velocity — how far be- 
yond, our finite instruments do not, very 
likely cannot register.” 

Talbot went on with increasing en- 
thusiasm. “Observe closely. A parodox 
occurred. At the velocity of light the 
mass became infinite, but, in obedience 
to the Fitzgerald Contraction Theorem, 
the length of the speeding body became 
zero. The inertial mass was wholly 
width without length, a line of infinite 
substance. 

“But, as the speed increased, another 
phenomenon occurred. Instead of zero 
length, by the inexorable workings of 
the Fitzegerald Contraction, the length 
of the moving body became negative, a 
minus dimension. The greater the 
velocity over that of light, the greater 
the negative length. Which meant” — 
he gestured around the space boat, at 
themselves — “that we turned inside out, 
so to speak ; that we were reversed, for- 
ward with backward, left with right. 

“Apperson,” he continued im- 
pressively, “that planet or universe 
overtook us, crashed into us. We are 



in it now, being carried. Heaven alone 
knows where?” 

“B-but,” the commander stammered, 
clinging with straining eflfort to the one 
thilig he could understand, “why didn’t 
we see it coming? We both were 
watching. Our instruments, too, didn’t 
register any approach.” 

“Because,” Talbot explained, “the 
onrushing planet was invisible. It had 
to be, aside from any consideration of 
its possible existence in a fourth dimen- 
sion of space — an inside-out dimension, 
as it were. Its velocity was greater than 
the velocity of the light waves that 
should have heralded its approach. It 
was faster than its own light, you see.” 

Apperson darted suddenly to the 
port. “Look!” he mouthed and could 
say no more. In two strides Talbot w;is 
at his side. Then he, too, gasped. 

THEY WERE resting on the sur- 
face of a fantastic, unbelievable world. 
Surface? Rather the concavity of the 
inside of a shell, stretching slowly up- 
ward in a long curve until what should 
have been a horizon was shrouded in 
the far mist. A sourceless golden liglit 
pervaded the weird landscape, drenched 
its strange, myriad forms in warm illu- 
mination. 

Queer monsters scuttled in the dis- 
tance over ingrowing vegetation, too 
far away for accurate sighting. Lofly 
towers hung at unbelievable angles on 
the very verge of the horizon mist, wa- 
vering to their straining vision as if 
they were but bright illusions. 

Talbot said with fierce enthusiasm. 
“There are beings on this world, beings 
of a high order of intelligence and civi- 
lization, who reared those marvelous 
structures.” 

But Apperson was not listening. 
“Look!” he pointed a trembling finger. 
“Look at those!” 

They must have been insects or in- 
sectlike creatures. They had come up 



20 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



swiftly around the curving sheath of 
the space boat, and they hovered with 
graceful, pointed legs and fragile, 
evanescent wings over the quartz of 
the port. 

“Like gigantic May flies,” Talbot 
murmured. “Those flitting insects of 
Earth that live but an hour or two. A 
short life but a merry one. Hello! 
What’s happening?” 

Before their very eyes the darting in- 
sects were shriveling, getting smaller 
and smaller. The sheen on their flash- 
ing bodies grew more lustrous and 
dewy. Then, suddenly, the wings col- 
lapsed, the creatures dropped slowly to 
the ground, twisted into curious fuzzy 
balls, became moveless. Almost imme- 
diately the cocoons unraveled, and fat, 
slimy grubs crawled out and scuttled 
into the surrounding grass. 

The young man started back from 
the port with a little cry. “Why — why,” 
he gasped, “if it weren’t absolutely in- 
credible, I’d say life has reversed itself 
here also. The full-grown insect be- 
came a cocoon, the cocoon a grub. If 
we could follow the grub, should we 
discover that it had matured into the 
natal egg?” 

Apperson was bewildered. It was 
too much for him— this topsy-turvy 
business. Talbot stopped in mid-flight, 
stared at him. Was it imagination, 
or was the gray of the old man’s beard 
growing steadily darker? Were the in- 
numerable wrinkles of age on his 
countenance smoothing out, unfolding 
or 

Grimly, without another word, Tal- 
bot hastened to the tiny laboratory. He 
must hurry! Already he felt a strange 
new laxness about his own limbs, al- 
ready certain memories were slipping 
like wraiths from his mind. 

The experiment he performed was 
simple and took very little time. Yet 
when he came out to face his commander 
there was no further question about it. 



The gray of beard and hair was defi- 
nitely deepening into black. Nor had 
there been any question about the re- 
sults of his experiment. His lungs 
exhaled oxygen, inhaled carbon dioxide ! 

It was true then. In leaping past 
the limiting velocity of light, not only 
had dimensions been reversed, but life 
processes themselves ! Existence para- 
doxically began with death, proceeded 
through maturity to youth, then on to 
birth ! They were getting younger every 
minute. The Fountain of Youth, long 
sought by wasting age, existed in this 
universe of superspeed. 

“We’ve got to get out of this at 
once,” he snapped to Apper.son. He 
dared not tell him why. The old man, 
already younger, would never consent 
to his plan. Yet they must get away, 
and that immediately. 

The velocity of this hurtling planet 
must be in the millions of normal miles 
per second, shuffling time processes at 
a like breathless pace. In a day or two 
of normal Earth time Apperson might 
become a lad of fourteen, while he, Dick 
Talbot, who once had been tweny-five, 
would reverse into an infant in arms. 

In another day He went to work 

grimly, unheeding the captain’s clamor- 
ous demands for explanation. He had 
no time to waste — every second was 
precious — nor dared he provide age 
with vain after regrets for what might 
have been. 

Talbot opened the forward reserve 
tank. There were two of them, filled 
with fuel. He had not used them, Ap- 
person unwitting, back there in that 
other universe — just in case! 

Streamers of flame blasted out. The 
ground leaped from under them, the 
space boat jerked forward with tremen- 
dous acceleration. Every drop in the 
tank poured into the jets. There was 
a loud crash, a searing, rending con- 
cussion. Talbot fell violently to the 
floor, and the darkness enveloped him. 



REVERSE UNIVERSE 



21 



THIS TIME when he awoke, it was 
to aching bones and bruised flesh. It 
was dark. The lights had gone out or 
blown from the smash, but a faint 
prickle of points in the distance brought 
him bolt upright. Some one groaned 
near by, stirred. 

“Are you all right, sir?” he asked 
anxiously. 

The captain groaned again in the 
darkness, then growled with all his old 
asperity. “Of course I’m all right. But 
what the devil did you mean, mister, 
by shaking us up like that?” 

Talbot disregarded the complaint. 
“Look at those stars out there,” he ex- 
claimed joyfully. “We’re back again, 
in our own space and time. That blast 
shot us right out of the alien universe. 
Sorry to have shaken you up, sir, but 
it was the only way. I had to build up 
tremendous acceleration in the opposite 
direction to neutralize the supervelocity 
of their system, to bring us once more 
under the limiting velocity of light.” 

He could hear Apperson fumbling 
for the switch that turned on the emer- 
gency lights. He waited with keen anx- 
iety to see what the illumination would 
disclose. As they sprang into being, 
he breathed a huge sigh of relief. 
Everything was normal again. Right 
was right and left was left, the very 
medal was in its accustomed place. But 



one thing had not changed : the darker 
hue in the old man’s beard, all unknow- 
ing to him ; the younger resilience in his 
own limbs. That must forever be kept 
a secret from Apperson. 

The commander surveyed him with 
icy deliberation. “You have brought 
us back,” he agreed. “But we face 
again a slow, certain death. In that 
other world ” 

Talbot grinned. “I figured on that, 
sir. That superworld was traveling 
fast, faster than we can ever possibly 
know. And it smacked us from be- 
hind, in the line of our own flight. 
Look through the forward port, sir.” 

A sun was rising, a great white, daz- 
zling orb. From behind its molten disk 
a green-tinged planet swam, its rounded 
edge luminous with a wavering band of 
light. 

“Alpha Centauri !” It was more than 
a cry ; it was a prayer and a triumphant 
vindication both at once. 

“Exactly,” Talbot said. “With a 
planet that we can land on. I’ve still 
a tank of fuel left. From the looks of 
it, there is an atmosphere on the planet 
— perhaps even beings somewhat sim- 
ilar to ourselves.” 

He relapsed into the formal phrases 
of a first officer on a well-disciplined 
space flier. “I have to report, sir, that 
we have reached our destination. Pre- 
pare for landing.” 











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The GLOWWORM 




Truly, I thought I was in Paradise! 



B eware, gentlemen, before you 
attempt an interplanetary 
flight ! Beware, not because 
you may not succeed, but because you 
may succeed too well ! The indirect 
costs of your experiment may be. more 
than it is worth ! 

Such was the celebrated warning 



issued in August, 1976, by Dean 
Cameron Prince, holder of the Tri- 
Continental Award for Astro-Physical 
Research. It was in September of that 
year, as will be recalled, that the 
Reimers-Bayle around-the-Moon rocket 
car was to attempt its first flight. 

The pronouncement of Dean Prince, 




FLOWER 



The sort of science -fiction which this 
writer alone can weave into a spell 



coming almost on the eve of the long- 
heralded excursion into space, naturally 
produced something of a sensation — 
although, when efforts were made to pin 
the dean down as to just what he had 
meant by “some new and unforeseen 
peril,” he resolutely refused to explain. 

Amid the excitement of the prepara- 
tions for the space flight. Prince’s pre- 
diction was soon forgotten ; nor was it to 
be generally remembered again for 
many months. On Sunday, the fifth of 
September, the rocket car ascended from 
an airport in Southern California ; and, 
driven by the explosions of a new vola- 
tile fuel named hydrogyl, rapidly made 
its way toward the Moon. 

Throughout the flight, the two occu- 
pants of the car were in constant radio 
communication with the Earth, and 
never at any time did they report them- 
selves to be in difficulties. 

Up, up, up they ascended, to a distance 
of more than three hundred thousand 
miles, then in a wide circle around the 
Moon, photographing its farther side, 
which had never before been revealed 
to the eyes of man, then down again 
to Earth, strictly on schedule time — so 
much so that, whereas the expedition 
had been planned to last forty-eight 
hours, they set foot on California soil 
precisely forty-seven hours and fifty-six 
minutes after their departure. 

It was only to be expected, therefore, 
that Reimers and Bayle, the successful 
space fliers, should be feted and ap- 
plauded in a manner befitting the 
Christopher Columbuses of a new age. 
And while they, in the exhilaration of 



their triumph, were contemplating an 
expedition to Venus, no one could even 
mention Dean Prince’s prophecy with- 
out being laughed iuto silence. As yet 
there was not even an indication of any 
possible ill effect ! 

It is true, however, that there was one 
unexpected, although interesting result 
of the space flight. On the soil of the 
airport, close to the rocket car — which, 
for exhibition purposes, had been al- 
lowed to remain where it descended — a 
peculiar plant was observed springing 
up, a week or two after the completion 
of the flight. 

AS the appearance of the plant — 
later christened the Glowworm Flower 
— has become familiar to every man, 
woman and child on the planet, it will 
be needless to describe it in detail. It 
was composed, as every one knows, of 
a curly mass of spidery, gray-green ten- 
drils, which spun and twisted themselves 
into dainty whorls and patterns, no two 
alike, yet all as graceful as the curve 
of the lily. 

There were no leaves; but near the 
end of the tendrils, as the plant 
approached its full height of two or 
three feet, a dazzlingly beautiful blossom 
appeared — a flower which, opening to 
the width of a large chrysanthemum, 
displayed a snowy-white heart, sur- 
rounded by innumerable rainbow-colored 
petals, which shimmered and shifted in 
complexion with every change of light, 
sometimes appearing pale-blue or laven- 
der, sometimes delicately rose-colored, 
sometimes palely saffron-tinted, some- 



24 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



times mauve or coral or faintly green or 
splashed with opalescent, creamy lines, 
but more often than not a combination 
of all these hues, and of a thousand 
others defying description. 

Another peculiarity of the blossom 
was that, instead of being invisible at 
night, it glowed with a weird, almost 
ghostly phosphorescence — with a dim, 
silvery, moonlike radiance that made it 
visible from a considerable distance, and 
produced an effect at once pleasing and 
a little uncanny. And at times, from 
the white heart of the flower, little 
gleams and sparkles of light would ap- 
pear, as though responsive to some in- 
telligent will. 

What made the plant even more won- 
drous to the senses was the strange, 
seductive odor it gave forth. There was 
something alluring beyond all words in 
its fragrance, which had a heady smell 
as of wine, and yet was sweeter, more 
pleasurable than wine — as though honey 
and ambrosia were blended in its com- 
position. 

It was observed that bees went almost 
mad in its presence, buzzing around the 
flower in wild excitement, until, sipping 
of the nectar, they would fall to the 
ground as if stunned, and only after the 
passage of an hour or two would be 
able to take to their wings again — where- 
upon they would immediately return to 
the Glowworm Flower. 

Whence came this astonishing plant? 
Before a month had passed, it began to 
dazzle even the unobservant eyes of the 
airport attendants, one of whom had the 
good sense to dip off a fragment and 
send it for analysis to Professor Richard 
Wallen, of the botany department of one 
of the leading universities. 

The latter, after conducting a micro- 
scopic examination, paid a hasty and 
agitated visit to the airjxirt, where he 
sought out the attendant and asked to 
see the living plant at once. “Never,” 
he swore, “have I observed anything like 



it ! The microscope reveals a cellular 
structure utterly different from any- 
thing I have ever encountered ! Neither 
my colleagues nor I can understand it !” 

Upon being shown the growing plants, 
the professor became still more excited. 
“It belongs to no known species,” he 
stated, emphatically. 

For the next few days, forsaking his 
duties at the university, the professor 
made his headquarters at the airport. 
Equipped with microscope, .scalpel, and 
test tube, he investigated and experi- 
mented unceasingly in a little impro- 
vised laboratory he had installed with the 
cobf>eration of the airport officials ; and 
it was not more than a week before he 
had made the announcement that electri- 
fied the Earth. 

“I have proved,” he proclaimed, “that 
the Glowworm Flower originates from 
an infinitesimally small three-pointed 
spore, of a type never known before. 
Multitudes of these spores have been 
found, upon microscopic examination, to 
be clinging to the sides and interstices of 
the Reimers-Bayle rocket car. The con- 
clusion, therefore, is irresistible. 

“They have been flying through inter- 
planetary space, and have been picked 
up by the car on its flight. In what 
world they originated we do not know ; 
but, manifestly, it was not Earth. Thus, 
for the first time in history, we may 
have the opportunity to witness the 
growth and development of extra- 
terrestrial life !” 

THE SENSATION created by this 
announcement, it is safe to say, was 
hardly less than that aroused by the 
Reimers-Bayle expedition itself. News- 
papers to»k up and featured the repwrt ; 
scientists rushed to Southern California, 
for a personal examination of the new 
plant; members of learned societies de- 
bated its significance, and physicists and 
biologists weighed the possibility of the 
survival of spores in outer space; the 



THE GLOWWORM FLOWER 



25 



public was startled into interest, and the 
Glowworm Flower became the subject 
of discussion among men who had but 
the vaguest idea of its meaning. 

Had the plant originated on Mars, on 
Venus, or on the satellite of some re- 
mote sun ? Through what incalculable 
eons had its germ cells been drifting 
amid interstellar vacancy? 

Concerning one fact, at least, there 
could be no doubt ; the Glowworm 
Flower had actually originated outside 
the Earth. All the investigating scien- 
tists — and they were numbered by the 
hundreds — were at one on this matter, 
although they had few other points of 
agreement. The vegetation of the stars 
had, literally, been transported to our 
planet ! 

Had the Glowworm Flower not been 
curiously beautiful, and remarkable 
alike for its exquisite fragrance and its 
luminescence at night, it might eventu- 
ally have passed out of view, except for 
the few specimens retained and studied 
in scientific laboratories. But, like 
many another treacherous thing, it 
allured by its loveliness, and soon had 
worked its way into favor in the salons 
of the well-to+do no less tlian in the 
gardens of common folk. 

The cultivation of the Glowworm 
Flower had become a fad, a craze, a 
passion with thousands. As fast as the 
spores could be developed, the young 
plants were distributed. Special 
nurseries arose for that purpose ; and at 
any point throughout the length and 
breadth of the United States, in Canada, 
in Mexico, and even in Europe, the 
traveler was likely to be greeted by the 
interlacing gray-green tendrils and un- 
Earthly rainbow-hued blossoms of the 
stranger from space. 

Unfortunately — as it ultimately 
turned out — it throve equally well in all 
climates, from the sub-polar to the 
tropical, and seemed to adapt itself to 
nearly every variety of soil. 



IT WAS in May, 1977— after the 
Glowworm Flower had become fairly 
well established — that medical journals 
began to speak of a new disease that 
had invaded widely scattered localities. 
The symptoms, it appears, were fairly 
definite, although they varied in minor 
details from case to case ; always it was 
the mind rather than the body of the 
victim that was affected. The sufferer 
would first undergo a i:ieriod of ecstasy 
in which he would call out in wild joy, 
like an intoxicated man ; then he would 
fall into a deep coma, from which no 
effort could awaken him for many 
hours ; then, finally, he would come to 
himself, invariably with a tale of the 
most astonishing dreams and visions, 
surpassing those of the opium smoker. 

As a rule, the experience would leave 
the patient greatly weakened, and he 
would be as long in recovering as though 
he had undergone a major oj^eration ; 
yet, invariably, his recuperation would 
be temporary only ; after a few weeks, 
he would succumb again, undergoing a 
still more dread visitation of the mys- 
terious malady. 

A peculiar fact about the disease was 
that it seemed to affect only the more 
highly sensitive and intellectual elements 
of the population. Writers, artists, pro- 
fessional men, scientists, preachers, 
scholars, philosophers — all those whose 
innate gifts and minds required the de- 
velopment of a delicate nervous system 
— these were the ones that appeared most 
susceptible, whereas common laborers, 
street sweepers, truck drivers, and the 
like, seemed totally immune. 

Naturally, physicians were alarmed — 
particularly as the disease was spreading 
rapidly. It seems incredible to us to-day 
that they did not immediately detect the 
cause ; but the fact is that they either 
remained in doubt, or feared — not with- 
out reason— that the announcement ot 
the truth would do more damage than 
good. At all events, it was months be- 
fore the source of the ailment was 



26 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



openly recognized, and meanwhile it was 
constantly claiming new victims. 

The strangest thing about the afflic- 
tion, according to all accounts, was the 
nature of the visions which the sufferer 
claimed to see. In all cases, he would 
describe a sensation as if he “had risen 
out of his body” ; in all cases, he would 
refer to an intoxicating sense of flying 
through “tremendous spaces,” through 
distances passing all computation. But, 
beyond this point, no two accounts 
agreed entirely, although they all had 
certain points in common : the descrip- 
tion of weird far-off worlds, of comet- 
swept skies, of flaming galaxies and un- 
familiar constellations, of suns and 
moons unknown to man, and of popu- 
lated countries fantastic beyond belief. 

To consider a typical account, here is 
the story of Dr. Francis Carlson, the 
British mathematician, who, as a hard- 
headed practical man, could scarcely 
have been expected to indulge in any 
vagaries of the imagination. 

“MY FIRST FEELING,” he wrote, 
“was one of great buoyancy and light- 
ness, as though I had left a weight of 
scores of pounds behind me. Suddenly 
I seemed to rise in the air. A shadowy 
form, which I took to be my own life- 
less body, was lying on the couch in my 
room. I rose through the walls and 
ceiling as though they did not exist, and 
out into the air over the house, which 
I could clearly see, then upward with a 
rocketlike velocity, until I had passed 
above the very Earth, and saw it 
diminishing beneath me like a shooting 
star. 

“It seemed much later when I found 
myself on the surface of another world. 
Three suns glared brilliantly down upon 
me — one, near the northern horizon, 
of about the color of our own Sun, al- 
though less than a tenth as large; an- 
other, halfway down from the zenith 
to the south, of a sultry copperish red, 
and much less bright than the first, but 



with fifty times its disk; while the third, 
of an unbearable pure-white radiance, 
was rising slowly in the west. There 
were also, I think, several moons, 
colored with shifting pinks, mauves and 
yellows, but these I did not notice par- 
ticularly, for my gaze was absorbed in 
the spectacle beneath. 

“The entire surface of the globe was 
covered with a bewitchingly beautiful 
foliage, with a jungle growth which, 
weaving its lovely gray-green tendrils in 
whorls and spirals to the height of great 
trees, displayed incalculable multitudes 
of the most resplendent flowers I had 
ever seen. 

“Larger than a man’s face, and more 
fascinating to behold than the most 
appealing woman ever put on Earth, 
each of the blossoms revealed shimmer- 
ing rainbow-hued petals about a core of 
pure-white; each, like a sentient being, 
swayed and tossed gracefully, although 
no wind was blowing ; and each exhaled 
an odor that it was heaven itself to 
breathe. 

“Truly, I thought that I was in Para- 
dise! And so enraptured was I that it 
was long before I even noticed the 
resemblance of these fairy blossoms to 
the Glowworm Flowers that had so de- 
lighted us on Earth. 

“It seemed that a long time went by, 
while I floated gently, as if on wings, 
through long twilight corridors beneath 
the masses of gray-green tendrils. And 
there, among branching lanes shot 
through with shafts of red and golden 
and silvery sunlight, I encountered the 
most glorious folk I had ever beheld. 

“Never speak to me of elves ! No elf 
could be so blithe and airy, so spry, so 
nimble, so kindly, so radiant with laugh- 
ter as these little creatures that, borne 
on dragon-fly wings, came singing to- 
ward me out of the forest of foliage. 
Only in the remotest way were they 
human — rather, they were more than 
human ; they were like angels, like gods ! 
Each, wrapped in a shimmering many- 



THE GLOWWORM FLOWER 



27 



colored gown like the robe of a hum- 
ming bird, had the daintiest of arms and 
legs in addition to wings ; each displayed 
long, flowing corn-colored hair, and 
eyes of an intense, an ethereal blue, set 
amid features iridescent with a thousand 
changeful tints. And the song that came 
from them all was to me as a heavenly 
chorus. 

“Yet none of these strange people 
could have been, I think, over a foot in 
height. Indeed, judging from the light- 
ness and ease of their movements as 
they curved and tossed and played and 
chased one another in air, I doubt if any 
of them was as substantial as a dove. 

“They did not seem surprised to see 
me. Their melodious cries, as they ap- 
proached, were as a carol of greeting. 
With a sense of encountering old and 
well-loved friends, I mingled among 
them ; and, as I did so, I seemed to have 
been reduced to their size, and to par- 
take of their qualities, and to dance and 
flit as one of them, and a sense of in- 
finite well-being was upon me. 

“There was one of their number — a 
frail and fragile creature, with eyes more 
deeply blue than those of her com- 
panions, and features that shimmered 
more brightly, and a gown of greater 
iridescence — who kept always at my 
side, and matched my every movement, 
until she seemed my breathing counter- 
part, and I was drawn toward her with 
a love that was wholly of the spirit. For 
we had no physical contact, and desired 
none, but wished only to float forever 
amid this world of endless light and 
shadow, of gray-green foliage and 
ambrosial perfume, and flowers more 
ravishing than a lover’s kiss. 

“A very long while seemed to go by; 
and we were ecstatically happy, and 
never ceased to glide through the sing- 
ing groves. But there came a moment 
when a sadness burst upon me, and a 
weight seemed to press down upon my 
shoulders, and something clutched at my 
heart, and drew me away. My airy lit- 



tle companion looked up at me with a 
speechless sorrow. In speechless sorrow 
I looked back. Suddenly all the light 
and the fragrance vanished, and I 
seemed to be far away, dropping back 
through the abyss of space. 

“After a time, I saw the Earth below, 
and it rose to meet me, and I entered the 
heaviness of its atmosphere, like one 
who, from some realm of light and joy- 
ousness, suddenly plunges into a deep, 
dank tunnel. At first I saw my house 
beneath, and passed through the roof, 
and on a couch was the shadow that was 
my body, and with a strange clicking 
sound I reentered it, and awoke, feeling 
very weak and ill, and sadder at heart 
than I can say. But they told me I had 
been out of my head. None would be- 
lieve my tale of the glorious world I had 
visited, and the word which they gave 
to all the radiance and the splendor was 
‘insanity.’ ’’ 

IF THIS had been but an isolated 
story, it might not repay repetition at 
such length. But since Dr. Carlson’s 
vision corresponded with that of thou- 
sands, it is important as showing the 
type of delusion common to all the 
sufferers from the new disease. 

Naturally, the victims protested that 
their visions were not delusions, that 
they represented actual experiences. But 
it is well known, of course, that no 
lunatic has ever been made to acknowl- 
edge his own lunacy. 

However, the remarkable uniformity 
of the accounts was without a parallel 
in the history of psychiatry — and, as a 
consequence, not a few independent 
observers argued for a serious basis for 
the visions. One fact, at least, came to 
be everywhere accepted after the period 
of preliminary confusion; that the dis- 
ease had a single cause — a cause which 
was eventually identified as nothing else 
than the Glowworm Flower. 

Soon after the discovery of the plant, 
it was revealed, one of the investigating 



28 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



scientists had made the experiment of 
tasting a thick, sticky nectar that formed 
at the base of the blossoms. He had 
been the first victim of the disease — and 
had been rapidly followed by others, to 
whom he had secretly confided the na- 
ture of his ailment. 

Through underground channels, the 
news had spread long before it had be- 
come publicly known ; hence the victims 
began to multiply at an alarming rate. 
Men of a dull and strictly prosaic turn of 
mind, it seemed, were not especially en- 
dangered, for, upon sipping of the mys- 
terious nectar, all that they would feel 
was a faint nausea; but the more sen- 
sitive and imaginative the partaker, the 
more completely he would succumb. 

To cure the chronic user of morphine 
or opium was less of a task than to 
rescue the devotee of the Glowworm 
Flower; once having tasted, he would 
have no object in life except to taste 
again and again — and, indeed, it seems 
hard to blame him, since he had the sen- 
sation of experiencing a far more ex- 
hilarating and beautiful existence. 

Nothing, however, could have been 
more deplorable than to see keen and 
creative minds wasting away in a 
drugged languor, to observe painters 
who had ceased to sketch, poets who had 
ceased to sing, musical virtuosos who 
had ceased to play, chemists who had 
turned from their test tubes, physicians 
who had abandoned their vials and 
stethoscopes, and judges who had de- 
serted their law books — all in order to 
enjoy the magic trance induced by the 
Glowworm Flower. 

To the practical and everyday world, 
the unanimous protestations of these de- 
luded ones seemed as fantastic as the 
outcries of some fanatical religious sect. 
Who could believe that the afflicted per- 
sons were really transported in spirit 
to the planet of the Glowworm Flower’s 
origin? Who could believe that they 
witnessed the actual scenes and en- 



countered the actual inhabitants of some 
other sphere? 

Yet this is what the victims of the 
disease firmly maintained; and to con- 
vince them of their error was impossible. 
Hence some of them were put behind 
the walls of institutions, where, in their 
madness, they would cry out for the 
Glowworm Flower, and would soon die 
if it were denied them ; and others, per- 
mitted their indulgence, would go olT 
into successively deeper trances, from 
one of which they would not awaken. 
The term of a man’s life, it was foun^, 
would not be more than six months or 
a year, once he had succumbed to the 
fascination of the Glowworm Flower. 

PUBLIC OPINION, usually slow in 
awakening, at last was fully aroused. 
Men everywhere became alive to the 
peril of permitting the ablest and most 
useful minds to be cut off by the mys- 
terious invader from space; and it was 
conservatively predicted that, in less than 
a generation, the intellectual bloom of 
the race would be destroyed forever. 
Yet all prohibitions, all laws were futile. 
The curious among the uninitiated, and 
those already victims of the Glowworm 
Flower, could not be deterred by any 
penalties. In all countries, the death 
rate was rapidly mounting; within a 
year, the casualties from the new disease 
were said to be as numerous as those of 
a great war. 

The only remedy, obviously, was to 
arrest the malady at its source : to 
eradicate the Glowworm Flower. At a 
hastily called international convention, 
representatives of every nation signed 
a pact calling for the extermination of 
the plant; everywhere the possession of 
it was made illegal, under the severest 
penalties, and tens of thousands of men 
were engaged to enforce the law and to 
see that every existing Glowworm 
Flower was uprooted and burned. 

But alas, it was not so easy to drive 
out the invader, once it had taken pos- 



THE GLOWWORM FLOWER 



29 



session ! The plant was bootlegged by 
profiteers who heaped up fortunes in the 
illicit traffic — and the most drastic pun- 
ishments were required to restrain them. 
Worst of all. even after the law break- 
ers began to be mastered, the Glowworm 
Flower was found to spring up volun- 
tarily in scattered parts of the Earth — 
in farm lands and deserts, on mountain- 
sides, islands and beaches. All efforts 
to control its spread appeared futile. 
Whether we desired it or not, it seemed 
to have settled among us to stay! 

More than a year had passed before, 
amid the darkness of the world’s despair, 
the International Investigating Commis- 
sion was driven to make a radical 
recommendation : 

“Let all interplanetary flights be 
ended ! Each new expedition into space 
gathers a new supply of the spores, 
which cling to the car and scatter on 
reaching the Earth’s atmosphere. There- 
fore the Glowworm Flower will be. with 
us until space flights are abolished.’’ 

Naturally, there was a great outcry 
against so stern a proposal. Since the 
Reimers-Bayle expedition, space excur- 
sions had become popular ; scores of 
parties had voyaged to the Moon and 
back, and plans were well advanced in 
their preparations for cruises to Mars, 
Venus and Mercury. Hence the pro- 
hibition of space travel seemed cruel and 
bitter to contemplate. 

Yet the authorities, in their eagerness 



to stamp out the menace, were ready to 
accept a lesser evil in return for a 
greater. With the consent and coopera- 
tion of all nations, and in defiance of 
world-wide protests, the licenses of all 
space pilots were withdrawn, and all 
apparatus for space flights was de- 
stroyed. And, from that time forth, the 
fight against the invading plant began 
to succeed. 

To-day, after ten years, not one of the 
beautiful, strangely seductive blossoms 
remains anywhere on Earth, except for 
the few preserved in museums. There 
are still many who sigh in remembrance 
of its divine fragrance, its other-worldly 
loveliness. There are many who voice 
regret that, because of the plant, space 
expeditions should have been nipi^ed in 
the bud. But, recalling how many of 
our best and wise.st citizens sleep in un- 
timely graves, we know that the 
measures we pursued, however greatly 
to be deplored, were the only ones open 
to us if the race was to survive. 

Hence- no words are more frequently 
quoted to-day than those of Dean Cam- 
eron Prince — unfortunately, so little 
heeded when first uttered! “Beware, 
gentlemen, before you attempt an in- 
terplanetary flight ! Beware, not be- 
cause you may not succeed, but because 
you may succeed too well!” 

Truly, those were words of wisdom 
more profound than we could have 
known ! 




Part Two of 

The Cometeers 

A New Epic of the skyways and the 
sequel to the **Legion of Space’* 



UP TO NOW: 

For want of a better word, the startled 
astronomers of the thirtieth century 
termed the invader a “comet.” A colos- 
sal cloud of shining green, sharp-edged, 
impenetrable , it came out of mysterious 
interstellar space. Controlled like a 
ship — although it is twelve miles long — 
it halted in space, beyond Pluto. 

Man’s amazement changed to panic 
O.S unseen raiders— -the Cometeers — 
invaded the system, and learned of 
Stephen Oreo. Stephen Oreo is the 
legion’s most dangerous prisoner. A 
brilliant, mysterious rebel, mockingly de- 
fiant of all humanity, he is dangerous 
because he has learned the secret of 
AKKA. 

AKKA is the symbol for humanity’s 
secret weapon. Its user, tvith simple 
instruments, can destroy any object in 
the universe — by so altering the warp of 
space that neither matter nor energy can 
exist. The only possible barrier is the 
counterwarp of space, by which any 
master of AKKA can prevent the de- 
structive use of the weapon. 

Aladoree Star is the keeper of AKKA. 
Her son, Bob, is with her when her 
husband, John, comes with an order 
from the Green Hall, headquarters of 
the legion of space, to destroy the Com- 
eteers. 

Before doing so she is interrupted by 
Jay Kalam, commander of the legion 
of space, who withdraws the order. He 
is going to take the Invincible — nezvest 
and most powerful of the legion’s space 



ships — and visit the Cometeers. If he 
does not return in twelve days, they are 
certainly enemies and must be destroyed. 

In the meantime, John Star is to take 
Aladoree to some even more secret and 
secluded place. Bob goes zvith Jay to 
enter the service. 

Jay explains to Bob that Oreo sur- 
rendered to them only on the guarantee 
that his life zvould he spared. He made 
an exception of only one individual who 
was free to kill him if he could: Bob 
Star. 

Bob, in turn, explains to Jay that 
there is a personal score to be settled be- 
tween them. While at the academy of 
the legion of space, Oreo burned Bob’s 
brain with an omega-ray projector . . 
Each pledged, then, to kill the other. 
But Bob never recovered from the burn- 
ing pain, and with it came an obsession 
.against ever killing any man. 

Now Bob must face this man — zvith 
the intention of killing him. His con- 
tinued existence holds a menace for the 
entire system. 

VIII. 

T he Invincible drove down to- 
ward the south pole of Nep- 
tune. 

The eighth planet, 2,800,000,000 miles 
from the Sun, receives a thousand times 
less solar radiation than Earth ; and 
only the heat of internal radioactivity 
prevents its very air from falling as 
everlasting snow. Radiation turns its 
atmosphere to freezing, never-ending 
fog. 




by JACK WILLIAMSON 



"It came across the floor, to the precious generator. The green- 
white mist swirled out — reached into them " 








32 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



Despite tlie vast size of the planet — 
its diameter is 30,000 miles — a low, 
mean density results in a surface gravi- 
tation nearly equal to that of Earth. 
And the planetary engineers had made 
life possible there, oxygenating the at- 
mosphere and building heated, insulated 
cities over the rich mines in the equa- 
torial belt. 

But the eternal winter dark of the 
south polar continent had defied even 
the engineers. A waste of frozen des- 
ert, utterly lifeless, larger than all Earth, 
it spread a blank, white area upon the 
interplanetary charts, marked : Unin- 

habited, perilous, shipping keep clear. 

The Invittdble, however, descended 
toward the center of it, through green- 
ish, freezing clouds. Bob Star and his 
two old guards set foot upon a flat, 
frozen plain. Giles Habibula’s squat 
bulk, as always, seemed about to burst 
the seams of his plain green uniform. 
Hal Samdu was still the rugged-faced 
giant, gaunt and powerful, proudly glit- 
tering with the decorations he had re- 
ceived for his part in the historic raid 
to Yarkand. 

Already shivering, they ran away 
from the air lock. Rockets thundered 
behind them; ghostly in the fog, the 
ship quivered, slid forward. They 
dropped flat to escape the hot, blue hur- 
ricane of her exhausts. A moment, and 
the blue glare was fading in the clouds ; 
thunder became a far-off whisper, 
ceased. 

The Invincible had carried Jay Kalam 
on his risky mission to test the good 
will of the Cometeers. 

A squad of legionnaires came down, 
challenged the three, examined Bob 
Star’s creelentials, and guided them to 
the strange fortress on a low and bar- 
ren hill, the hidden prison of Stephen 
Oreo. 

They were almost upon it before 
Bob Star could see anything; then, ab- 
ruptly, a vast and massive wall loomed 
above them in the fog. 



“The wall is ring-shaped, sir,” the 
officer informed him, extremely respect- 
ful since he had seen the signature of 
Jay Kalam himself upon Star’s papers. 
“There’s a circular rocket field inside, 
where our four cruisers lie. You don’t 
see the real prison at all; it is a buried 
cylinder of perdurite. Merrin’s cell is 
a thousand feet below the field.” 

A ponderous, armored door admitted 
them to the wall’s hundred-foot mass. 
Bob Star immediately asked to see the 
prisoner. And at last, beyond confus- 
ing, narrow passages walled with gray 
perdurite, behind huge cylindrical doors, 
massively locked, beyond hidden eleva- 
tors and grimly alert guards in turrets 
of vitrilith, he looked upon the man 
whose very life was a threat to the ex- 
istence of humanity. 

A HUGE DOOR let him into a 
square, bare little room, where two sen- 
tries watched. Its farther wall was a 
shining mass of vitrilith. Beyond that 
impregnable transparency was Stephen 
Oreo’s cell. Clear, soft light flooded it, 
and it was furnished comfortablj'. 

Beside a tall, frosted glass of scar- 
let wine, the prisoner sat in a big chair, 
reading. His gigantic, splendid body 
was relaxed in a green dressing gown. 
Bob Star could see the angle of his 
handsome face, the light smile that 
clung to his big, womanish mouth. 

“This is Merrin, sir,” said the officer. 
“He was sealed beyond that wall of 
vitrilith when the prison was built, two 
years ago. No one has held any com- 
munication with him since. The cell is 
soundproof. All metal objects have 
been kept from him. Air, water, and 
liquid food are pumped to him through 

screened tubes ” 

He broke off to indicate a small red 
button on the gray wall beside them. 

“I must warn you, sir. The red but- 
ton would flood the cell with lethal gas. 
I thought I should tell you, for we have 

AST— 2 



THE COMETEERS 



33 



orders to preserve his life as a sacred 
trust.” 

Bob Star scarcely heard the last 
words, above the sudden, confused ring- 
ing in his ears. Abrupt sweat chilled 
his body. He swayed with faintness. 
The red disk stared at him, a sinister 
eye. 

He had just to touch it — that was all. 
And the score of nine years would be 
settled. An intolerable burden would 
be lifted. Even the old pain, he felt, 
would die ; and the haunting fear would 
go 

He was aware, then, that Stephen 
Oreo had seen him. The blue eyes, cold 
and burning with a reckless defiance, 
had come up from the book. The hand- 
some face smiled mockingly. The pris- 
oner got to his feet and strolled to the 
transparent, unbreakable wall. He 
pointed at the red button, and slapped 
his leg with silent merriment. His full, 
dark lips moved to some derisive, 
soundless greeting. 

Bob Star felt a sudden desire to speak 
to him. This was their first encounter 
since tliat night of pain. Perhaps his 
fear was just a mental complex born 
of torture, an illusion that a few words 
might dissolve. 

Yes, said the officer, there was a 
telephone, but its use was forbidden. 

“I will speak with him,!’ said Bob 
Star. 

AFTER a conference with the com- 
mandant, it was arranged. Bob Star 
was left alone in the square, gray room, 
and a magnetic speaker thumped. 

The clear, rich baritone of Stephen 
Oreo came to him, carelessly: “Greet- 
ings, Bob. I’ve been amused at your 
efforts to put your finger on that lit- 
tle button.” 

Bob Star’s white face set. He 
rasped : “I’m going to do it.” 

“You won't do it. Bob. I know the 
effect of the omega ray upon the tissues 
of the brain. No, I’ve never been afraid 

AST— 3 



that you will kill me. And I know that 
no other, will — because of a foolish code 
the legion has.” 

Bob Star braced himself, forced one 
hand a little way toward that malicious 
red eye. But the old fear yelled, you 

can’t A numbing chill struck down 

his hand. He staggered back, his shoul- 
ders sagging with defeat. Tears stung 
his eyes; his hands knotted impotently. 

“I’m really glad to see you,” Stephen 
Oreo was saying, smiling. “Because 
you must have been sent here with the 
ill-grounded hope that you could de- 
stroy me. That means that my already 
rather fantastic defenses are considered 
inadequate. I conclude therefore that 
I have powerful allies outside, and that 
I may hope shortly to be set free.” 

“Not if I can prevent it,” said Bob 
Star, grimly. 

“You can’t. Bob. I’ve beaten you.” 
Bob Star was amazed at the black hate 
that peered suddenly through that smil- 
ing levity. “I’ve broken you!” 

The voiefe was abruptly lower, hoarse, 
monstrously evil. 

“When first I knew of you, when we 
were children, it filled me with fury to 
think that an incompetent weakling, 
without any effort of his own, should 
one day become the most powerful of 
men — while I had nothing. I then re- 
solved to crush you, take your heritage 
for myself.” 

Stephen Oreo paused. His wide 
mouth lifted in a sudden, brilliant smile 
of satisfaction, and his tone was light 
again when he resumed : “You were 
easy to break. Bob. That night in the 
laboratory, the ray killed all the dan- 
ger in you. For a time I was disturbed 
by ethical questions, though now they 
are clear enough. Consider it this w'ay: 
one of us has AKKA given to him, the 
other must find it by his own efforts. 
Which better deserves it?” 

“The keeping of AKKA is not an 
advantage,” whispered Bob Star, faintly. 



34 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



“It is a duty to mankind. But how — ' 
how did you find it?” 

The prisoner smiled patronizingly. 

“I shall tell you, Bob,” he said, “if 
only to establish the superiority of my 
right, and the justice of what I have 
done — and shall do. I followed the 
method of investigation that should have 
suggested itself to any person of intel- 
ligence. I collected the data available, 
formulated hypothesis, tested them by 
experiment, developed my conclusions. 

“I secured access, at the academy, to 
a secret library, and studied there all 
existing accounts of the use of AKKA, 
from the discovery of it by Charles 
Anthar — when he was in prison as I 
am. 

“The last use of the weapon had been 
to destroy Earth’s old Moon — after the 
invading Medusae had seized it. With 
my foster father’s space yacht, I 
searched the orbit of the lost satellite, 
until, at last, I found three small metal- 
lic buttons. 

“No larger than the end of my thumb, 
they were all that remained of the 
Moon. I have since realized how sin- 
gularly fortunate I was to find a single 
atom. It was only because your mother 
was working hastily, with a crude in- 
strument, that a tiny remnant of heavy, 
refractory elements escaped complete 
annihilation. 

“Some months of careful work, with 
ultra-microscope, spectroscope, radio 
and chemical analysis, among other 
means, revealed the nature of the par- 
tial effect of AKKA upon the speci- 
mens. From effect to cause was a mat- 
ter of mathematical reasoning. It re- 
mained but to test alternative hypothe- 
sis, and elaborate the surviving con- 
struction — and I was master of AKKA.” 

Bob Star stood voiceless until he 
sighed and relaxed, saying: “Don’t such 
abilities merit reward, Bob? I am cer- 
tainly the most gifted of men; reason 
assures me that I am therefore their 
rightful ruler. And I should have been 



that, already. Bob — but for my blun- 
der.” 

Hoarsely, Bob Star whispered, 
“What was that?” 

With a bright, careless smile, Stephen 
Oreo replied: “I should have killed 
your mother. Bob. Then I should have 
been able to use the destructive force 
of AKKA. The blunder put me here,” 
His lithe shoulders shrugged. “When I 
am free, I shall not repeat it. Bob. I’m 
not afraid to tell you, for I know you 
can’t touch that button — even to save 
your mother’s life.” 

IX. 

WEARILY, Bob Star rapped on the 
metal door, and had the telephone cut 
off. With the prisoner sealed again in 
his tomb of silence, he remained alone 
in the little outer room, grimly resolved 
to stay there until the crisis came — if it 
must come. 

Stephen Oreo had calmly returned to 
his chair and his book. He relaxed in 
the green robe, sipping the scarlet wine, 
apparently oblivious of Bob Star mis- 
erably hunched on the hard bench out- 
side. 

Twice again Bob Star had tried all 
his faculties in an effort to touch the 
button. But no force of will seemed 
able to erase the mark of that flaming 
ray. At last he abandoned the attempt 
for the time, desperately hopeful that 
the grim stimulus of emergency would 
aid him. 

His blue eyes, as he sat there, nar- 
rowed abruptly. His breath sucked in, 
his lean hands clenched. He leaned for- 
ward on his seat, staring at the gray 
wall. For its surface had begun to 
shimmer with vague, moving shadows. 

The metal door was still locked be- 
hind him; the alarm gong was silent. 
There was no hint of another presence 
in the room — only the creeping shad- 
ows on the wall. He watched, breath- 
less. 



THE COMETEERS 



35 



A blue, misty circle flickered against 
the gray. Ghostly shadow forms darted 
through it. Abruptly then, as if some 
unseen projector had come suddenly 
into focus, it melted into an amazing 
scene. Swiftly, his first bewildered 
mistrust of his eyes was burned away 
by the vivid wonder of what he saw. 

He looked into a curious chamber, 
sunk like a niche into the gray wall. Its 
hollow surface followed tapering spiral 
curves. It was singular, absolute black, 
spangled with small crystals of brilliant 
blue, that were various as snowflakes. 

The girl stood upon a many-angled 
pedestal of blue transparency. Its cold 
sapphire flame burned up against the 
oddly curving walls, writing fantastic 
runes of flame in the tiny flakes of blue. 

Against darkness and blue flame, she 
was vividly white. Her wide, solemn 
eyes were brown, golden-flecked ; her 
black hair glinted with red. One slim 
wliite arm was thrust out toward him, 
and upward, in an arresting gesture of 
warning. The pale oval of her face 
was grave with the expectation of dan- 
ger; her bright lips parted as if she 
spoke some warning word. 

In bewildered fascination. Bob Star 
came up like an automaton from the 
bench, and started toward her. She 
stopped him with an imperative ges- 
ture. 

She pointed through the panel of 
vitrilith, at the oblivious Stephen Oreo. 
Then, keeping her regretful, yet de- 
termined, golden eyes on Bob Star, she 
thrust a slender finger again and again 
at the button on the wall. 

Bob Star made a little motion toward 
it, and stopped with a helpless shrug. 
She had plainly told him to touch it — 
but that ancient fear still chained him. 
He turned back toward her, with sick 
misery on his face. 

Her face became a pool of tragic 
resignation. A light died in her golden 
eyes. Then, abruptly, she started, as 
if to a silent voice. She looked away 



through the gray wall. Her slender 
body quivered in the white robe, grew 
rigid. 

Her bare arms made a quick, little 
impulsive gesture of compassion toward 
Bob Star. He started forward, and 
again she stopped him, gesturing at the 
red button imperatively, desperately, 
hopelessly. 

THEN, as she made a fleeting little 
gesture of farewell, a bomb of cold 
flame exploded in the blue pedestal. 
Sapphire light swirled up against the 
crystal rime upon the spiral walls. Her 
gentle, tragic beauty was wrapped in 
supernal fire. Blue radiance filled the 
niche, and died. A blue shadow faded 
from the gray wall. 

Bob Star was alone in the silent 
room. 

He swayed, trembling. Tears burned 
his eyes. He flung his head and looked 
at Stephen Oreo, who was just setting 
down his empty glass, still absorbed in 
the book. 

His mind was roaring confusion. 
Was she real? Was she real? All won- 
der in him had been suspended, but now 
the question hammered at him. Real- 
ity? Or hallucination born of the con- 
flict of fear and effort in his tortured 
mind ? 

He jumped, when the gong shattered 
the silence in the room. Harshly, from 
a speaker beside it, rasped a hoarse com- 
mand: “Emergency stations! Seal all 

doors! Stand ” The voice choked 

strangely. A ragged whisper gasped, 

“Quick ! Invisible things I can’t 

see ’’ 

Now! breathed Bob Star. He must 
do it now, or doom the system. Eight- 
ing a numbing inertia, he took a halting 
step toward the gray wall. The red 
button winked at him, like a mocking 
eye. He was aware that Stephen Oreo 
had laid aside the book, was watching 
him with careless amusement. 

He took another jerky step. Abrupt 



36 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



sweat chilled him. His ears were roar- 
ing again. With mounting blows, the 
old pain shocked every fiber of his tor- 
tured nerves. 

“Stop!” shrieked fear. 

He set his teeth and took another 
step, clinging to his picture of the girl, 
finding a strength, a new courage, in 
her brown eyes. 

Something was wrong with the 
light; it was turning 'green. Or was 
there a green light shining through the 
wall? He must hurry. There were 

only two steps more A green mist 

had flooded the room — or was it in his 
eyes? The gray walls swam. The red 
button winked at him out of the haze, 
maliciously. 

His skin prickled strangely. New 
numbness stole over him. Stiffness 
seized his limbs. He thrust out his arm 
— or tried to. He could no longer see 
or hear. He no longer had a body. He 
didn’t know when it hit the floor. 

Abject misery clung for a moment to 
his disembodied mind.- He had failed 
the brown eyes. The old fear had 
beaten him, the red hammer of pain, and 
something else he didn’t understand. 
Then even the sickness of despair was 
gone, before overwhelming darkness. 

X. 

MUTTERED THUNDER of de- 
scending rockets woke Bob Star. Bit- 
ter cold was settling into his stiff limbs, 
and his eyes opened upon oppressive 
green twilight. His body lay sprawled 
upon frozen soil, yet stiff with the 
queer, tingling numbness that had 
robbed bim of consciousness. 

Groping dimly for recollection, be 
had the disturbing sense fliat the gap 
in his consciousness contained some- 
thing unthinkably hideous — something 
that his mind had sealed away, to pre- 
serve its sanity. 

Then the dreadful sense of failure 
came back, a slow, sickening wave. He 



lay for a time in utter apathy, until the 
increasing sound of rockets penetrated 
his mind again. He gulped cold air into 
his lungs, then, and sat up. 

He was bewildered to find himself on 
the brink of an appalling chasm. The 
flat, barren plain broke before him into 
a sheer abyss of greenish darkness. 
Floor and farther walls were lost in a 
misty infinity. 

The scrape of a foot drew his glance, 
and he saw Giles Habibula and Hal 
Samdu behind him, staring up at a 
vague blue glow that flickered through 
ragged wisps of green-black cloud. 

“Aye !” boomed the giant. “ ’Tis a 
ship !” 

“Ah, me, ’tis time,” came the familiar 
jdaintive tones of Giles Habibula. 

“Giles,” Bob Star called weakly. 
“Where are we? What’s happened?” 
“Lad !” The thin voice reflected sur- 
prised relief. “We thought you would 
never wake, until you died of cold.” 
They lifted Bob Star to his feet. 
Clinging to Giles Habibula, he felt a 
little sob of gladness. 

“Ah, ’twas an age of mortal evil ” 

“That pit?” said Bob Star, still tor- 
mented by the dread that had shadowed 

his awakening. “Tell me ” 

“The pit is where the mortal prison 
was.” The old voice was a, thin rasp 
of dread. “After the raiders had taken 
the prisoner away, a red light shone 
down from the invisible ship. And the 
walls flowed into red liquid. The very 
blessed ground turned to red fire, and 
sank away. Ah, the pit is all that’s left 
of the prison and the garrison, lad. ’Tis 
a mortal mile deep!” 

“So he’s gone,” whispered Bob Star. 
“I failed, and they took him away.” 

HIS MIND was numbed anew with 
the overwhelming consequences of his 
failure. Dull, incurious, his eyes fol- 
lowed the blue glare of the rockets that 
roared above, sinking and shifting in the; 
clouds. 



THE COMETEERS 



37 



“ ’Tis landing near,” said Giles 
Habibula, gratefully. “At last we are 
saved ” 

“Tell me what happened,” demanded 
Bob Star again. “How does it come 
that we are alive, when all the rest are 
dead?” 

“The prisoner spared you, lad, and us 
with you. He told us he was the rebel 
Oreo, whom the system thought dead — 
but you knew that. 

“Hal and I,” he amplified, “were wait- 
ing for you outside his cell. Of a sud- 
den my poor old nerves were shocked 
by a frightful alarm. Gongs were ring- 
ing, men running, half-clad, to their sta- 
tions. 

“Then I saw the blessed men begin 
to fall, lad. And a green mist dimmed 
my own old eyes. My poor, ailing body 
failed me. I went down helpless with 
the rest, and so did Hal. 

“Yet for a time I clung to my old wits, 
when all the rest knew nothing. I heard 
the clatter of locks, and saw the great 
doors revolving. Then I heard some 
mortal creatures passing through, 
though I could not see them. 

“Presently the prisoner' Oreo came 
walking out of his cell, speaking and 
making gestures to creatures I could not 
see. They answered him with hootings 
and boomings from the empty air. And 
your body was following him, lad, float- 
ing — carried in unseen arms. 

“The prisoner pointed to Hal and 
me. The invisible creatures lifted us, 
and we were carried helpless out of the 
prison. Little I remember, until we 
were all lying out here upon the frozen 
ground. Near us was some great ship 
—it was invisible, but I could hear ma- 
chinery and the clang of valves. 

“Then the prisoner, now himself in- 
visible, spoke near me. 

“ ‘You are Giles Habibula, the pick- 
lock?’ he said. ‘I bow to the fame of 
your accomplishments.’ He laughed a 
little and said, ‘I think we are brothers.’ 

“Then his voice went dark with hate. 



‘I understand that your unfortunate 
master will presently recover,’ he said. 
‘Tell him that I have spared his life — in 
return for sparing mine.’ 

“He laughed a black, hard laugh. 
‘Tell him that you three are the only 
men alive on this continent. It is five 
thousand miles to the sea, and nine 
thousand more to the Isle of Shylar. I 
fear he won’t live to reach it — but he 
will live long enough to know that I 
have won.’ 

“He laughed again; it was a mortal 
ghostly sound in the empty air, lad. 
He said, ‘Tell Bob I go to seek his 
mother.’ 

“A valve clanged then. lad. Creatures 
hooted and boomed. The green fog 
swirled, and the invisible ship was gone. 
I found two long, straight groves in the 
soil, where it lay. 

“Then a cold, pale-red light shone 
down from the clouds. ’Twas a fearful 
thing, lad ! The fortress melted into a 
red and flaming liquid, and that sank 
away, until this fearful pit was burned 
into the blessed planet.” 

HE SHIVERED. 

“Mortal me, the Cometeers are fear- 
ful enemies ! ’Twere better if the rocket 
hadn’t come for us. If we live to leave 
Neptune, ’twill be only to see mankind 
crushed and destroyed.” 

“Do not say it, Giles !” boomed Plal 
Samdu. “If we live, it will be to fight 
for the system and Aladoree. Come! 
We must seek the rocket, before it goes 
and leaves us.” 

The glaring rockets had vanished in 
the clouds, but Bob Star had felt a faint 
shock when the ship struck the frozen 
plain, 

“It landed too hard,” he whispered 
anxiously. “It may be injured.” 

They stumbled shivering through the 
fog, around the ragged hp of the chasm. 
A shattered and riven mass of wreckage 
loomed at last before them. Bob Star 
sank into apathetic despair. 



38 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



“Mortal me!” sobbed Giles Habibula. 
“ ’Tis no more than the tenth of a ship! 
’Tis but the nose of some blessed cruiser. 
’Twill never serve to carry us out of this 
mortal waste. We sliall freeze and die 

here, as the prisoner intended ” 

Bob Star was looking dully upward. 
Great plates of armor were twisted, 
blackened. Ports were shattered. 
Rocket muzzles projected at grotesque 
angles. A colossal proton gun had been 
hurled from its turret. 

Then his heart came up in his throat. 
He staggered back, dazed. He swal- 
lowed, whispered : “The Invincible ” 

A cruel, iron band grew tight around 
his chest ; he could speak no more. 

Sick despair descended anew. If the 
Invincible had been destroyed, it meant 
that Jay Kalam’s gesture of friendship 
had failed. It meant that the Cometeers 
were enemies — ^and now, since Stephen 
Oreo was free, they could not be de- 
stroyed with AKKA. 

XI. 

“AH, SO,” said Giles Habibula, bit- 
terly. “ ’Tis a miserable fragment of 
the great Invincible. Alas, poor Jay! 

’Tis, no doubt, his coffin ” 

A faint hope kindled in Bob Star. 
“The rockets were working when it 
fell. He was -fighting for his life. Per- 
haps he’s still alive.” 

“Not in such a fearful wreck,” said 
the old man, wearily. 

Yet it was he who came forward, 
when Bob Star and Hal Samdu had 
failed to find entrance to the intact sec- 
tion of the great hull. 

“I-.ad,” he asked, “you say the for- 
ward valve is clear?” 

“It is,” said Bob Star. “But locked.” 
“Then help me reach it, lad,” he 
pleaded. 

They aided his trembling ascent into 
the wreckage. He clung before the 
valve, peering in the darkness at the 
lock. 



“Ah, me !” he muttered sadly. “Why 
must they lock up a fighting ship like 
a blessed safe? Ah, but it speaks ill for 
the courage of the legion.” 

But Bob Star, watching, marveled at 
the deft, quick certainty of the thick 
fingers. He was hardly surprised when 
the lock snapped and whirring motors 
began to lower the outer valve. 

“Do you know, lad,” the old man 
wheezed triumphantly, “there’s not an- 
other in the whole blessed system who 
could master such a lock? But come, 
let us search for poor Jay.” 

The bridge room was dark and empty. 
Upon the log strip was the neatly printed 
legend : 

Wreck falling toward south pole of Nep- 
tune. Will attempt to land at Merrin’s 
prison. General order : The Cometeers are 
enemies, and the legion will fight to the end. 

Kalam. 

Hal Samdu’s great voice was boom- 
ing: 

“Jay ! Where are you. Jay?” 

“In his den, of course!” Bob Star ex- 
claimed abruptly. “It is soundproof.” 
He ran through the chart room to the 
little hidden door, rang, and waited. It 
flung abruptly open. Golden light 
poured out. A tall, lean man in the 
green of the legion stood in the door- 
way. The surprise on his grave, dark- 
eyed face gave way to sudden joy. 
“Bob!” his soft voice exclaimed. 

“Hal ! Giles ” His voice broke. 

“I thought you must all have perished.” 
He brought them into the luxurious, 
rich-hued simplicity of the long hidden 
room, and closed the door. They re- 
laxed to grateful warmth, and he found 
them hot food. 

“I tried ” Bob Star burst out sud- 

denly. “I tried, commander!” He set 
down a steaming bowl, unable to swal- 
low. His lean face twisted with black 
self-reproach. “And I couldn’t!” His 
voice was high, savage. “I’m just a 
coward ” 



THE COMETEERS 



39 



GRAVELY, Jay Kalam was shaking 
his dark head. 

“Don’t say that. I suspected that you 
might be unable to do it, yet I wanted 
you to have the chance, partly for your 
own sake. Your incapacity is due ap- 
parently fo an actual injury to the tis- 
sues of the brain. Don’t blame your- 
self for it ’’ 

“I tried !’’ Bob Star broke in, wildly. 
“And almost I did it, commander ! But 
I failed — and now he’s free to murder 
my mother, and lead the Cometeers 
against the system. And it’s all my 
fault ’’ 

“No.” Jay Kalam’s voice was 
troubled, yet decisive. “If there is a 
fault, it is mine, for holding a standard 
of honor too high. Remember, my word 
is all that has preserved Stephen Oreo’s 
life. And it was only rny mistaken 
sense of magnanimity that stayed the 
order to destroy the comet.” 

“You’re sure,” whispered Bob Star, 
white-faced, “that it should have been 
destroyed ?” 

The commander nodded grimly. 

“The Cometeers are absolutely ruth- 
less, completely devoid of the high quali- 
ties I had hoped for. The attack upon 
the Invincible was needless, unprovoked, 
wanton. But let me tell you !” 

He plunged into a swift account of 
the catastrophe. 

“Three hours after we left the prison, 
the telltale flashed red. The gravity 
detectors betrayed an invisible object of 
fifty thousand tons, following us from 
Neptune. In the hope of setting up 
friendly communication, I ordered the 
heliograph room to flash a series of sig- 
nals. 

“At the first flash, a terrific force 
caught the Invincible. The geodynes 
were helpless against it. We spun like a 
toy boat in a whirlpool. Like a pebble 
on a string, we were drawn toward the 
unseen craft. * 

“Can you conceive an invisible beam 
of force. Bob — what a mathematician 



might describe as a tube field of etheric 
strain — strong enough to drag the In- 
vincible against her fighting geodynes, 
five thousand miles in five minutes ? 
That’s what happened. 

“Then a red light burned for a mo- 
ment among the stars — aboard the in- 
visible ship. And the Invincible was 
destroyed. All the afterpart of the ves- 
sel shone dull-red, melted into shining 
red liquid, vanished ” 

“Aye,” muttered Hal Samdu. “So 
was the prison blotted out.” 

“An atomic effect, it must be,” specu- 
lated Jay Kalam. “The atoms couldn’t 
be disintegrated — there’s too little en- 
ergy released. Perhaps the space lattice 
is simply collapsed, with a residue of 
impalpable, neutronic dust ” 

He jerked his dark head, came back 
to the narrative. 

“Forty men were left alive with me. 
I made no effort to stop their rush to 
the life rockets. The vortex gun was 
wrecked ; we couldn’t fight. I remained 
aboard alone. 

“The six rockets made a little fleet, 
headed back toward Neptune — a little 
swarm of blue stars, dwindling in the 
dark of space.” His eyes closed as he 
paused, as if with pain. “They had 
gone only a little way,” he said huskily, 
“when that red light burned again. They 
all shone red and vanished.” 

Hal Samdu’s big, gaunt face flamed 
with anger. 

“They killed men of the legion?” he 
asked. “When they couldn’t defend 
themselves ?” 

Jay Kalam nodded grimly. 

“That is our measure of the Comet- 
eers — and of Stephen Oreo. For he 
was aboard the invisible ship ; those men 
were doubtless murdered with his ap- 
proval.” 

Bob Star’s hands jerked into quiver- 
ing knots ; his shoulders came straight. 
Grimly anxious, his voice rasf>ed : 
“Which way did they go, commander?” 

“As far as I could follow them with 



40 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



the detector, Bob, they were still headed 
toward the comet.” 

“We must follow.” Bob Star’s voice 
was quietly deadly. “Stephen Oreo must 
be destroyed.” 

“He must,” said Jay Kalam, wearily. 
“That is why I struggled so to save my 
life, as the wreck fell.” 

“Ah, so,” said Giles Habibula, with 
admiration. “And it must have been 
a mortal bitter fight, you alone in less 
than half a ship.” 

“But it’s a small chance we have,” 
put in Bob Star hopelessly. “The only 
men on the whole frozen continent, with- 
out a ship ” 

Hal Samdu broke in, “Bob, we aren’t 
the only men.” 

“WhaM” 

“Ah, so, there are others — enemies!” 
wheezed Giles Habibula. “In the mor- 
tal confusion of disasters we had not 
told you, lad. 

“ ’Twas while you lay unconscious be- 
side the pit. Some stranger came 
through the fog, muttering, and snarling 
like a beast. Thinking him a chance sur- 
vivor of the garrison, I called out to 
him. He flashed at me with a proton 
gun. It went wide, thanks be to the 
fog. Then Hal flung a rock, and the 
stranger fled, whimjjering like a hurt 
.animal.” 

“Eh?” Jay Kalam had leaned for- 
ward, a new light in his dark eyes. 
“You’re sure he wasn’t from the 
prison ?” 

“That I am. Jay. I saw his face in 
the light from his gun. It was bearded. 
He was an unkempt, shaggy brute, clad 
in tattered scraps of cloth — no trim le- 
gionnaire.” 

“Strange.” The commander whistled 
softly. “I wonder ” 

XII. 

BOB STAR paused in the foggy 
dark. The light tube wavered in his 
quivering hand, flickered away across 



the barren, rugged plateau, and came 
trembling back to the thing that had 
stopped him. 

“Lad,” Giles Habibula whispered 
fearfully, “what have you found ?” 

Jay Kalam and Hal Samdu came up 
beside them in the frigid, greenish mist. 

The four stared down at what lay in 
the light : scattered garments, torn, 
bloodstained, flung carelessly over the 
ashy soil ; a little dark pile of viscera, 
frozen ; a few large bones, stripped ; the 
fragments of a skull, to which short yel- 
low hair still adhered, burst, scooped 
clean of brains. 

“This green,” whispered Bob Star, 
picking up a torn sleeve. “The legion 
uniform ” 

“Ah, so !” It was a ragged wail of 
fear. “A poor soldier was eaten here 
by some mortal creature of the dark. 
As we may be ” 

“A legionnaire who strayed from the 
garrison, perhaps,” speculated Bob Star. 

Jay Kalam picked up a bright, blood- 
splashed little object, held it under the 
light. It was an enameled pin of white 
metal, a vivid-colored bird clutching a 
minute, inscribed scroll. The com- 
mander’s breath came out between 
pursed lips, silently. 

“No,” he said, “this man didn’t come 
from the fort. I knew him.” His low 
voice drifted back into time. “He had 
pale, timid, blue eyes, under that yellow 
hair and his voice was soft as a wom- 
an’s. He used to paint pictures — dainty 
little landscapes; he' wrote jingling 
verse. A queer, violent fate that cast 
away the bones of such a man on frozen 
Neptune ” 

Bob Star whispered, “Who was he?” 

“Justin Malkar, his name was — his 
men called him sometimes, behind his 
back, Miss Malkar. But for all his ef- 
feminacy, he was an efficient officer in 
his mild, thorough way, and his crew 
admired him enough to give him this 
pin, the last time they called at the base 
on Earth. 



THE COMETEERS 



41 



“He liked it. He was weak as a, 
woman for anything brilliant, flashy 



Gravely, the commander laid the pin 
on a little rock beside the scattered re- 
mains, and turned thoughtfully away be- 
fore he plunged into a brisk reply to 
Bob Star’s question. 

“He was captain of the Halcyon Bird. 
He and Stephen Oreo were the same 
rank, the year they were ordered to the 
Jupiter Patrol. But Oreo already domi- 
nated him, and when the revolt came, 
Malkar was one of the first to join. He 
wasn’t a bad man ; Oreo simply under- 
stood and used his peculiar weaknesses. 

“When the rebels surrendered, the 
Halcyon Bird was missing. We soon 
found that one Mark Lardo, a wealthy 
Callistonian planter who had been 
Oreo’s chief lieutenant, had fled upon 
it. We scoured space for the missing 
ship, but this is the first trace ’’ 

He looked back at the gleam of the 
pin on the rock. 

“But what,” Bob Star’s voice was 
gray with horror, “what could have at- 
tacked him?” 

“I think we shall know the answer,” 
said Jay Kalam, “when we find the 
bearded stranger.” 

He looked down at the white, illumi- 
nated face of the tiny gyrograph in the 
palm of his hand. Fumbling for the 
stylus, he made a notation on the record 
strip. 

Then, pressing a stud and reading 
numerals from the glowing dial, he said : 
“We’re seven miles, now, from the. 
wreck. This is the first clue. We must 
be near what we’re looking for. We 
shall circle ” 

“Ah, so,” said Giles Habibula. “Let’s 
be moving, before we freeze and die, 
and lie here to be eaten ” 

THEY tramped ' away. Bob Star 
shivered from the penetrating fog. 
Again the eternal twilight quenched his 
hope. It was no use, he told himself. 



It was a timeless world, this desert of 
endless winter dark. Nothing ever hap- 
pened — 

Three days before, while they were 
still within the ivory-walled comfort of 
Jay Kalam’s long, hidden room upon 
the wreck, he had asked : “We can’t sig- 
nal for a ship?” 

The commander shook his head. “The 
signal house, amidships, was destroyed, 
with all the spare equipment in the 
stores.” 

“But we must have a ship.” Bob Star 
looked at Jay Kalam suddenly. “We 
couldn’t build anything that would fly, 
out of this wreckage?” 

The commander smiled briefly. 

“The rockets weigh two hundred tons 
each. Bob,” he said. “Rather heavy for 
us to handle. Besides, the delicate parts 
of the injectors and firing mechanisms 
must have been pretty well smashed.” 

Bob Star’s hands clenched. 

“What possible way ” 

“We must search, I think,” said the 
commander, “for the stranger in the 
fog. If he isn’t a member of the garri- 
son, he must surely have some private 
means of communication. Anyhow, I 
see no more promising course of action.” 

And for three timeless, frigid days, 
they had been stumbling through the 
misty dark. 

More hopeful, yet with new appre- 
hension, they went on from the remains 
of Justin Malkar. Dark fog breathed 
upon them with the breath of death. 
Bob Star led the way around crumbling 
boulders, up frozen slopes, across mid- 
night declivities, as Jay Kalam, watch- 
ing his glowing instrument, softly called 
directions. 

The plateau remained bare of any 
other mark of life or man. Bob Star 
was trembling with cold, reeling with 
fatigue and hunger, when Jay Kalam 
said: “Swing to the left. Bob. We can’t 
go any farther ” 

“Ah, thank you. Jay,” gasped Giles 



42 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



Ilabibula. “I feared you would never 
turn, until we died.” 

“Yes, commander,” said Bob Star, 
fighting sick despair. “But there’s a 
big boulder to the left ” 

His voice stopped, with a little eager 
catch. He strained his eyes. The thing 
was vague, ghostly. He tried his light 
tube again, although he knew that it was 
burned out, useless. Breathless, he 
stumbled nearer. 

The shimmering shadow took on real- 
ity. His heart leaped against his ribs. 
The thing was a cylinder of gray metal, 
fifteen feet through, eighty long. He 
made out the black ovals of observation 
jx)rts, the bulge of a gun turret. 

“Bob?” called Jay Kalam. 

Bob Star stumbled back toward him. 
whispering urgently; “Quiet! There’s 
a ship. They will hear ” 

His words were cut off by a beam of 
blinding light that struck against a rock 
beside them. 

“A searchlight,” he gasped. “They 
heard ! Get down ” 

They tumbled flat, scrambled swiftly 
for cover. The protecting bulk of stone 
was stabbed abruptly with a sword of 
violet flame, riven. Fragments of in- 
candescent rock spattered from it. 

“Bob,” whispered Jay Kalam. “Giles. 
Hal. All safe?” 

“Aye, Jay,” rumbled Hal Samdu. 
“But where are the others?” 

“Bob !” called the commander, louder. 
“Giles!” 

But frozen Neptune made no reply. 

BOB STAR, standing nearest the 
ship, barely escaped the hissing violet 
blast of the great proton needle. Elec- 
tricity transmitted on ionized air hurled 
him to the frozen soil, momentarily 
dazed, paralyzed. 

He saw the slender needle swinging 
<!own, still faintly glowing, a spectral 
finger of death. Desperately he rolled 
over, and began to drag himself toward 
the ship. The gun reached the bottom 



of its arc, violet flame spurted again. 
Rocks exploded behind him, but the 
shock reached him only faintly. 

Crouching, safely beneath the needle, 
he ran to the gray hull. He slipped back 
to the valve. An instant’s inspection 
told him that it was locked from within, 
impossible for him to open. 

The nameless oppression of the Nep- 
tunian night sank into him once more. 
Then he started. 

“Lad! Where are you, lad ?” It was 
Giles Habibula, frightened. “Mortal 
me !” 

Bob Star saw him creeping swiftly 
toward him. 

“Ah, lad!” It was a bitter sigh. 
“We’re trapped, against the mortal ship. 
The light blinded me. I ran in the 
wrong direction.” 

“Here, Giles!” Hope caught up 
Bob Star again. “Can you open this 
lock?” 

“Wait a moment.” He fumbled in 
his great pockets. “Ah, here it is — the 
bit of wire that let us into the Invincible. 
But why, lad? We two cannot storm a 
ship!” 

“Open it,” begged Bob Star. 
“Hurry !” 

“Ah, if I must. But the folly is on 
your own head, lad. 

“Strange are the wheels of genius, 
lad,” he said, already busy with the lock. 
“Never could I use my gift in peace and 
comfort. It sleeps till the scream of 
danger rouses it. It is ever sluggard, 
without the tonics of darkness and haste 



Motor within hummed softly, the 
valve was swinging downward. 

“Well !” He retreated hastily. “ ’Tis 
your own folly, lad!” 

Bob Star sprang into the open cham- 
ber. Quick, cautious footsteps were 
approaching along the deck within. He - 
flattened against the curving wjll, 
caught his breath. The blunt nose of a 
proton gun came into view. 

Few such situations had been neg- 



t 



THE COMETEERS 



43 



lected in Bob Star’s very thorough 
course at the legion academy. And he 
was master of all he had studied — until 
it came to the very act of killing. It 
was only then that the mounting pain of 
the old scar staggered him, that the fear 
born of the ray came screaming to seize 
him. 

He caught the weapon and the hand 
that grasped it. His quick tug brought 
a burly, bearded man to his knees within 
the little chamber. He was twice Bob 
Star’s weight, rugged, powerful ; yet 
quickness told, and the skill of long 
training. A last thrust found a nerve 
in his neck; he collapsed, with a final, 
shuddering shriek: “Don’t ’’ 

Bob Star tumbled him out of the 
valve. 

“Giles,” he called softly, “a prisoner 
for you.” 

HE RAN BACK within. Silence 
met him on the curiously littered deck. 
The bridge was deserted, the floor scat- 
tered with torn, neglected charts. Doors 
to the cabins swung open upon dusty 
disorder. The air reeked of stale food, 
decay, filth. 

He climbed into the gloom beneath the 
blazing searchlight, and found the tur- 
ret empty. The man he fought had 
been alone. He returned to the air lock 
and called : 

“Commander, the Halcyon Bird is 
ours.” 

The prisoner, recovering in the icy 
mist, was screaming: “I am Mark 

Lardo. I can pay for my life; I can 
buy food !” 

Bob Star and Jay Kalam, twelve 
hours later, were in the small bridge 
room. Disorder had vanished. The mu- 
tilated charts had been gathered up. 
Bob Star was cleaning and inspecting 
the scattered instruments. 

Hal Samdu, who had been clearing 
the rubbish from decks and living 
quarters, entered to report: “Jay, the 



prisoner in the brig is howling like a 
wolf.” 

“He’s insane,” said Jay Kalam. “And 
not much wonder. We can’t do any- 
thing for him. Have you finished?” 

“Aye, Jay, she begins to look again 
like a proper legion cruiser. Have you 
learned yet how she came to be here?” 

The commander’s eyes fell briefly to 
the torn, stained pages before him. 

“Justin Malkar’s log,” he said, “gives 
the outline of the story. It seems that 
Malkar wanted to surrender on Callisto. 
Conscience had overtaken him ; he was 
ready to pay for his treason with his 
life. 

“Mark Lardo, however, came aboard 
with a dozen of his armed henchmen, 
and forced him to start on the flight 
to Neptune. Departure was hurried. 
They were short of fuel in the begin- 
ning, yet there seems to have been 
enough to have made the voyage. 

“Malkar’s entries are a little obscure, 
yet it is quite plain that he drove the 
ship off her course, deliberately wasting 
fuel. The cathode plates were exhausted 
before deceleration of space velocity 
was complete, and it was necessary to 
use all the rocket fuel, to prevent a crash 
into the planet. 

“Until the end, Malkar let his com- 
panions believe that they would land 
safely on the Isle of Shylar — he could 
have taken them there, just as easily. 
He records their consternation with evi- 
dent satisfaction, together with the fact 
that the food aboard was sufficient to 
last only a few months. 

“His last entry is an odd, jingling lit- 
tle Ode to Justice.” 

He turned a soiled, mutilated page. 

“The rest we must read for ourselves. 
Somehow, as the food ran low, Mark 
Lardo got his twenty-two companions 
outside — perhaps he reported a rescue 
ship landing near. Anyhow, he locked 
them out to perish.” 

“The remains we found ” Bob 

Star was voiceless with horror. 



44 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



“Precisely. Mark Lardo was the 
beast.” 

“Ah, so,” said Giles Habibula, shuf- 
fling in. “The galley is full of mortal 
human bones.” 

“The artist in the queer soul of Justin 
Malkar,” mused Jay Kalam, “would be 
well satisfied with the retribution of 
Mark Lardo.” 

Faintly, from the distant brig, Bob 
Star could hear the hoarse, animal 
screams of the mad fugitive : “Don t 
turn me out ! They are waiting in the 
dark, waiting for my flesh. Don’t turn 
me out !” 

“Ah, Jay,” Giles Habibula said sadly, 
“ ’twas a mortal weary task you gave 
me. But I’ve cleared up the power 
rooms, as you bade me, and inspected 
the rockets and geodynes.” 

All three faced him anxiously as Jay 
Kalam asked: “Are they in working 

order ?” 

The old man inclined the yellow globe 
of his head. 

“Ah, so, Jay. The generators are the 
sweetest I ever touched. But the cath- 
ode plates are gone, to the last ounce. 
And the rocket fuel left in the tanks 
would not move the ship a precious 
inch !” 

XIII. 

GILES HABIBULA remained on 
guard, while the others tramped the 
frozen miles to the wreck and staggered 
back under heavy drums of rocket fuel. 
Then the old man primed the injectors, 
and Bob Star, navigator, took his stand 
on the bridge. With a roar of blue 
flame, the Halcyon Bird broke free of 
the frost, and soared through green dusk 
to the wreck. 

For many hours, then, they labored, 
carrying cathode plates and drums of 
rocket fuel from the intact stores be- 
neath the chart house of the dead In- 
vincible. Giles Habibula set the galley 
in order and stocked it from the wreck, 
and when, at last, the Halcyon Bird was 



ready for flight, his deft hands had a 
hot meal waiting. 

“Now,” said Bob Star, “we’re off for 
the comet!” 

“Aye,” rumbled Hal Samdu, gloom- 
ily savage. “But it took us too long. 
If that murderer has found Aladoree 
there ” 

His eyes fell to his spoon, and Bob 
Star saw that it was crumbled into 
shapeless metal. 

“It isn’t long,” said Jay Kalam 
slowly, almost wearily, “since I left this 
spot, for the comet. I had a ship a 
thousand times the size of this, with a 
thou-sand times the fighting power. Out 
there is the wreck of it.” 

Blit elation surged up in Bob Star as 
he rose hastily from the neat white table. 
Relaxation and warm food filled him 
with confidence. He was drunk with the 
joy of escape from bleak Neptune, eager 
for the bright freedom of space and 
the blood-hastening song of speeding 
geodynes. 

“We're all dead tired, I know,” Jay 
Kalam was saying. “But we must take 
no time to rest, until we’re off.” 

He sent Bob Star back to the bridge, 
Giles Habibula to the power rooms, Hal 
Samdu to the gun turret. 

And they burst at last from freezing 
clouds into the clear immensity of space. 
A dimly green, oblate sphere, Neptune 
fell away into a blackness that was 
pierced with the myriad eternal stars, 
webbed with the pale silver stuff of 
nebulae. Bob Star shut off the rockets. 
The geodynes sang loud, and the green- 
ish sphere, below the small, ghostly globe 
of Triton, visibly diminished. 

The Sun flamed bright and tiny in 
the void, an amazing star. Great Jupi- 
ter and tawny Saturn were faint and 
far-off flecks, beside it. Earth could 
not be seen. 

Bob Star’s eyes were on the green, 
pale ellipse of the comet ahead. He was 
alone in the little room. The only sound 
was the high-pitUied hum of hard-driven 



THE COMETEERS 



45 




He saw the slender needle swinging down, a spectral Unger 
of death. Rocks exploded behind him 



generators, and the faint clickings from 
chronometers and charting instruments. 
Out of the hard, eternal splendor of 
space, the comet returned his gaze, like 
a green, malignant eye. 

He was thinking again of its mystery, 
its wonder. Twelve million miles long, 
it had a thousand times the mass of 
Earth — ^yet the Cometeers had steered 
it Sunward like a ship. 

The Cometeers! 

Obviously, they' were superintelli- 
gent. They were invisible, or could 
make themselves so. The armament of 



their unseen scouting vessel had de- 
• stroyed the system’s most powerful 
fighting ship, had dissolved mankind’s 
strongest fortress into liquid flame. 

MEN knew no more of the Comet- 
eers. 

Looking at that green, hypnotic eye. 
Bob Star tried to picture them. Could 
they be human? He tried to believe 
that they were, for their humanity meant 
to him the reality of the girl — or the 
vision— who had come to warn him in 
the prison. The alluring, baffling riddle 



46 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



of her was always with him, and he 
clung to his belief in her reality, in spite 
of Giles Habibula and Jay Kalam. 

“Lad, lad!” the old man had chided. 
“You’ve been dreaming. You’ve lived 
too much alone. ’Tis true you have a 
mortal need of such a lovely maid as 
you describe. But you must not let the 
need build her out of your dreams.” 

“Dreams!” cried Bob Star. “She’s 
as real as you are! And in terrible 
trouble — you could see it on her face. 
And if ever Stephen Oreo is killed, and 
I am free, I’m going to find her ” 

The tall commander had expressed an 
equal skepticism. 

“If she were real. Bob, she couldn’t 
very well be a native of the system. We 
have no inkling of any scientific princi- 
ple that would enable the projection of 
such an image as you describe, without 
terminal apparatus. You believe she’s 
an inhabitant of the comet. Bob. But 
the odds against that are multiplied bil- 
lions to one.” 

Bob Star whispered, “Why?” 

“The forms possible to life are so 
infinitely various,” the commander said 
deliberately, “the structural adaptations 
of protoplasm to environmental influ- 
ences are so amazingly complex, that 
probably on all the planets of all the 
suns in the entire universe, there never 
was and never will be another race that 
could be called human. 

“I think. Bob, that Giles is right — 
you should regard your vision as purely 
subjective, a product of your fears to- 
gether with the curious force that ren- 
dered you unconscious. Rather than hu- 
man, it is more likely that the Cometeers 
are something you wouldn't recognize 
as life at all.” 

Bob Star stared back at the never- 
blinking, insidious green orb of the 
comet, until the ship and the world 
ceased to exist. He and the eye were 
alone in space. And the eye was draw- 
ing him onward, into nameless doom. 

If the Cometeers weren’t human. 



what were they? Grotesque things of 
flesh? Formless amoeboid protoplasm? 
Animate vegetables ? 

Or stranger still, could they be col- 
locations of elements unknown in the 
system? Perhaps spheres or cubes or 
other fantastic forms? 

Or could the comet, he wondered, be 
a single sentient entity? Might its life 
exist not in discrete individuals but as an 
attribute of the whole? 

Horror took root in his mind, feeding 
upon his fantastic speculations. The 
commander brought no relief, when he 
came to take tTie bridge. Bob Star re- 
ported their course, position, and veloc- 
ity mechanically. 

He was reeling away, w'ith hardly an- 
other word, when the exclamation 
stopped him: “Pluto! Isn’t it beyond 
its normal orbital position?” 

Like an automaton. Bob Star stum- 
bled to consult his log. 

“Pluto had already left its orbit, com- 
mander,” he reported wearily, “when I 
took the first observations, off Neptune. 
It has since been moving toward the 
comet, with continually increasing ac- 
celeration.” 

“Toward the comet?” The com- 
mander’s face was grave, but the grim- 
ness of his dark face revealed consterna- 
tion. 

“Perhaps,” Bob Star suggested from 
his dull apathy, “the planet has been 
grasped with such a beam of force as 
you say seized the Invincible.” 

Wearily, he rubbed at the white scar 
on his forehead. 

“The people ” whispered Jay 

Kalam. “The colonists — what will be- 
come of them?” 

“I don’t know, commander,” said Bob 
Star, blankly. 

“If Pluto has been snatched away, an- 
other planet may be taken, and another.” 
Jay Kalam was husky with dread. “The 
Sun may be stripped of planets.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Bob Star, without in- 
terest. 



THE COMETEERS 



47 



The commander looked at him with 
sudden intentness. 

“You are very tired. Bob. Go ahead 
to your quarters and sleep.” 

BOB STAR saluted like a run-down 
robot, and staggered away. He dropped, 
fully dressed, upon his bunk. But sleep 
evaded him. The green eye of the 
comet had assumed a fearful, penetrat- 
ing power. It was looking into his 
cabin, searching his very mind. He 
shrank from it, shuddering, but he could 
never escape it. 

The thin whine of the generators was 
eerie, hypnotic music. His numbed mind 
broke it into weird minor bars. When it 
carried him at last into an uneasy half 
sleep, horror followed. 

Nightmares came, in which the Com- 
eteers assumed every dread shape that 
his waking brain had suggested, and be- 
set him in frightful hordes. He and 
the girl struggled side by side, vainly, to 
fend off nameless doom. 

He woke with a sudden start,- rigid, 
drenched with ice sweat. Loud and un- 
couth and terrible, he could hear the 
screams of fear-ridden mad Mark 
Lardo. 

The four days that followed were to 
Bob Star four eternities of anxious 
strain. 

“In five hours at our present rate of 
deceleration,” he reported to Jay Kalam 
at last, “we should reach the surface of 
the comet.” 

“Still,” said the commander gravely, 
“I cannot believe that we shall be al- 
lowed to approach it, unopposed.” 

He took the controls, and Bob Star 
went to see the others. Hal Samdu was 
in the gun turret, lying back in the 
padded seat, fast asleep. It was no quiet 
slumber. His great limbs were tense, 
jerking spasmodically. He was mutter- 
ing, groaning. 

“Take that!” Bob Star distinguished 
the words. “For Aladoree!” 



He went down into the power rooms. 
Giles Habibula was sitting on the floor 
beside the geodynes, with his fat legs 
spread wide. Empty bottles were scat- 
tered about him. One not empty was 
standing between his legs. 

He was very drunk. Only his voice 
and the uncanny deftness of his hands 
seemed unaffected. 

Jay Kalam’s soft voice whispered 
from a speaker. The old man dragged 
himself heavily to his feet, and lurched 
toward the generators. His hands 
made some quick, skillful adjustment. 
His small, dull eyes scanned their hum- 
ming masses with affectionate care. 

He collapsed again, beside the bottle. 

His bloodshot eyes, wandering across 
the floor, found Bob Star’s feet, and 
climbed to his face. He started. 

“Mortal me!” he gasped. “You gave 
me a dreadful fright, lad. My first 
fancy was to see some bloody, monstrous 
thing, creeping in to destroy me. Ah, 
’tis a fearful voyage, lad ! A fearful 
voyage! ’Tis mortal certain we’ll never 
live to reach the comet. 

“Sit down with me, lad,” he urged, 
“and share a drop of wine. The blessed 
warmth of it will drive a little of the 
cold fear from your lieart. Ah, old 
Giles Habibula should have been a sorry 
soldier, lad, but for the precious cour- 
age that comes foaming from the bottle ! 

“And now it matters not what the 
miserable doctors may say. Old Giles 
has no fit stomach for his blessed wine, 
they say. And his poor old heart is 
aljout to stop. But wretched old Giles 
Habibula will never die of his precious 
wine— that is mortal clear ! 

“He is doomed by the horrors that 
dwell in the comet. Can’t you feel the 
evil power of them seeping into the 
very ship, lad? Can’t you feel the icy- 
breath of them on your neck? Can’t 
you hear them, cowering invisible in 
the corners? 

“Ah. 'tis a thing of mortal evil come 



48 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



from space to destroy the system, lad. 
The age of man is ended ! And we are 
the lucky ones who are the first to die, 
and who die while we are drunk. Drink 
with me, lad! Wine is a strength and 
an armor. Few ills can touch a man 
drunk with wine.” 

And he tipped up the bottle again. 

Bob Star returned to the bridge. 

Before the hurtling ship, the comet 
expanded. 

The sharp-edged, greenish oval of it 
looked the size of an egg, and the size 
of a man’s hand. It spread across the 
black of space. It swallowed the stars. 
It became a sea of terrible green, over- 
flowing the heavens. 

THEY examined it with every in- 
strument the ship possessed. 

Baffled, the tall commander of the 
legion at last shook his dark head. 

“I can’t make anything of it,” he said. 
‘‘That green surface is a perfect geo- 
metric ellipsoid. It is absolutely fea- 
tureless. At this distance, we should be 
able to see anything as small as a house 
or a ship or a tree. And there is noth- 
ing.” 

‘‘But the raiders,” said Bob Star, 
‘‘were invisible.” 

Jay Kalam nodded. 

‘‘They were. And perhaps they dwell 
upon that surface, invisible.” 

He stroked the dark angle of his jaw, 
reflectively. 

‘‘But I don’t think so. It’s more 
likely, I think, that the green is a kind 
of armor — not material, perhaps, but a 
wall of fixed energy — the hull, let us 
say, of a ship. What are we to find 
within?” 

Bob Star bit his lip, without speak- 
ing. 

And still the comet spread. Its green 
tide overwhelmed the stars, until its 
fearful enigma covered half the sky be- 
fore them. And still the edges of it 
appeared knife-sharp. Still its pallid. 



weirdly gleaming surface was unmarked, 
impenetrable. 

Jay Kalam turned wearily from a tel- 
escope, muttering: “Nothing, nothing.” 

Bob Star was stiff, quivering. His 
chest felt cramped. His breath was 
slow and irregular. Sweat came out, 
unnoticed, on his palms. He started un- 
reasonably at the ringing of an alarm 
gong. A breathless, involuntary cry of 
fear escaped his dry lips. Apprehen- 
sively, he sprang to the instruments. 

Anxiety edged even Jay Kalam’s calm, 
grave tone, as he asked: “What is it. 
Bob?” 

“We have encountered a powerful re- 
pulsive field,” his husky voice reported, 
“emanating from the surface of the 
comet.” 

Swiftly he took readings from the 
dials, integrated the results upon a cal- 
culator. 

“Already,” he said, “it is absorbing 
our momentum faster than the geo- 
dynes.” 

He spoke into Giles Habibula’s tele- 
phone. And the generators, which had 
been checking the terrific momentum ac- 
quired along the billions of miles from 
Neptune, ceased to hum. 

In the silence, he read the dials again. 

“The repulsion is mounting,” he an- 
nounced. “I’m afraid we'll never reach 
the surface ” 

He spoke again to the power room. 
The geodynes replied, pushing forward, 

now. At quarter speed At half 

At full power 

Bob Star turned, at last, to Jay Ka- 
lam, shaking his head in bewildered de- 
feat. 

“Our forward momentum is gone,” 
he whispered. “We are being driven 
back, against the full thrust of the geo- 
dynes.” 

“Then,” Jay Kalam said slowly, “the 
green is an armor — a wall of repulsive 
force ” — 



AST— 3 



THE COMETEERS 



49 



“And we can’t pass it. At this rate, 
the repulsion must increase to infinity 
at the green surface. That means that 
an infinite velocity would be required, 

to burst through ’’ 

His voice was cut oflf by a shrill 
scream of utter terror. 

They both started, turning. 

“It’s the maniac,” Bob Star whis- 
pered. “Mark Lardo.” 

A thin articulation, bubbling with 
fear, it came again : “They’re trying to 
eat mel” There was a gasping, shud- 
dering shriek. “Don’t let them eat me !” 
Bob Star turned slowly back to his 
instruments. The madman had been 
screaming, at intervals, ever since his 
capture — though never with such ungov- 
erned abandon of horror as this. 

“Is there nothing,” he asked, “that we 

can do for him ” 

Jay Kalam’s hand grew tense on his 
arm. 

“Bob ” he whispered. 

Bob Star attempted to speak, and the 
icy talons of fear sank into his throat. 

“Something,” he faintly heard Jay 
Kalam’s low voice, tremulous with sup- 
pressed consternation, “something is 
with us, on the ship !” 

But he had already become aware, 
through what sense he did not know, of 
a dread, malific presence. He had heard 
nothing, certainly. His eyes saw noth- 
ing. Nor had anything touched his 
body. Yet he knew, without the slight- 
est doubt, that some fearful, supernal 
entity had come among them. 

A hoarse, unwilling outcry burst from 
his lips. 

“Look! The green ” 

A greenish mist was suddenly obscur- 
ing the instruments before him ; a green 
haze filled the little room. His body- 
tingled to a sudden, stiffening chill. All 
his sensations were curiously blanketed, 
dull. 

Very faintly. Jay Kalam’s voice came 

AST— 4 



to him : “Is this the same agency that 
overcame you at the prison. Bob?” 

His body had become a clumsy, unre- 
sponding machine. He realized that it 
was falling. Consciousness was fading 
before universal darkness. 

Dully, from a vast distance, he heard 
the thin screams of mad Mark Lardo: 
“I don’t want to die ! Don’t let it ” 

XIV. 

BOB STAR picked himself up, pain- 
fully, from the floor of the tiny bridge. 
His limbs were strangely stiff, unre- 
sponsive. A faint, unplea,sant tingling 
sensation still came from all his body. 
His visiop, for a moment, was misty. A 
dull, persistent ringing faded slowly 
from his ears, and he perceived abruptly 
that the keen humming of the geodynes 
had ceased. 

A dreadful silence ruled the ship. 
Even the screams of Mark Lardo had 
stopped. 

Beside him, on the floor. Jay Kalam 
groaned faintly. Bob Star bent, dizzily, 
to examine him. His body was utterly 
limp, as if lifeless. The skin was 
flushed, from dilation of the capillary 
vessels. Heart and breath were very 
slow, irregular. The skin felt cold with 
sweat. 

He groaned and stirred again. Life 
tensed the dead-limp arms. He was re- 
covering. 

Bob Star turned to the instruments. 
The geodesic indicators showed axial 
deflection zero, field potential zero. The 
ship was still hurtling away from the 
comet, to the now unopposed repulsion. 

Jay Kalam opened his eyes, checking 
another groan. 

“Our visitor — it is gone?” 

“I think so.” Bob Star was helping 
him to rise. “But the geodynes are 
dead. We’re flying before that repul- 
sion, helpless.” 



50 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



“What was it?” 

“I don’t know.” Bob Star tried to 
keep the echo of stark dread out of his 
voice. “I didn’t see anything, except 
the green ” 

“That might be a penetrating radia- 
tion,” Jay Kalam suggested, “that short- 
circuits the neurone fibers, sufficiently at 
least to prevent any conscious mental ac- 
tion. How long were we unconscious ?” 

Bob Star looked at a chronometer. 
“About ten minutes.” 

“I wonder why it came aboard?” His 
voice was anxious. “Please go aft, Bob, 
and see what happened to the others.” 

A muttering groan led Bob Star into 
the gun turret. Hal Samdu was just 
dragging himself up beliind the great 
proton needle, stiffly flexing his mighty 
arms. 

“Aye, Bob,” he rumbled. “What 
came upon us?” 

“I don't know, Hal. Tell me, what 
did you see — or feel?” 

The giant shook his rugged head. 

“I saw nothing,” he said. “A mon- 
strous shadow crept into the ship. Then 
the green mist was in my eyes, and I 
couldn’t see. And this stiffness seized 
my body and I couldn’t move. That is 
all I know.” 

Bob Star was descending toward the 
power rooms, when a faint, whimper- 
ing sound led him curiously to the brig. 
He looked through the barred door, at 
Mark Lardo. And abrupt horror spilled 
out his strength. 

GASPING, weak, trembling, he 
clung to the bars. His distended eyes 
stared through, at the thing on the floor 
of the cell. 

Mark Lardo had been big — a shaggy, 
powerful human brute. But the 
shrunken thing in the cell seemed hardly 
larger than a child. The skin of it was 
uncannily white, and its limbs were 
oddly, hideously shriveled. It lay inert 



on the floor, making feeble little move- 
ments, whimpering. 

“Mark!” cried Bob Star, his hoarse 
voice thick and clotted with horror. 
“Mark! Can you hear me?” 

The thing moved a little, feebly. The 
shrunken head rolled back, and Bob 
Star staggered away from the bars. For 
its flesh was drawn, wrinkled, until it 
looked like the head of a tiny mummy. 
Its skin was white, with a loathsome, 
dreadful whiteness. Hair and beard 
were gone. 

But the supreme horror resided in its 
eyes. They were sunk deep into the 
monkeylike skull, and queerly glazed. 
Bob Star thought they must be blind. 
Smoky, yellow shadows swirled through 
them. They were the eyes of nothing 
human. 

Sick to the very heart. Bob Star cov- 
ered his eyes. He stumbled away. 

Even though a raving maniac, the 
Alark Lardo of ten minutes ago had 
been a man — burly, massive, powerful. 
His great, wild voice had been ringing 
through the ship. This wasted, animate 
horror was no man. It had less than 
half the bulk of Mark Lardo, and little 
indeed of the savage, animal life. 

Bob Star reeled along the deck, shak- 
ing his head, seeking to dislodge a cling- 
ing terror from his mind. He stumbled 
down the steps into the power rooms, 
and stood swaying at the bottom. 

“Giles,” he called out, hoarsely, “have 
you any wine?” 

The fat, short bulk of Giles Habibula 
was leaning disconsolately against the 
shining mass of one of the geodyne gen- 
erators. His gross arms were flung 
about it. His massive shoulders were 
trembling. Bob Star could hear the 
dry, broken sound of his sobs. 

He didn’t hear, and Bob Star called 
again: “Giles, I want a drink.” 

The old man heard, and pushed him- 
self away from the generator. He came 



THE COMETEERS 



51 



steadily across the room, all trace of his 
drunkenness gone. His fishy eyes were 
weeping frankly, unashamed. Tears 
were streaming down his purple nose. 

“Ah, lad,” he lamented bitterly, “you 
find me at a mortal evil moment. You 
find me crying, as if a precious friend 
had died!” 

Bob Star came a little toward him, 
trying to shut out his memory of the 
whimpering, lifeless horror in the brig. 
He grasped at any diversion. 

“What’s the matter, Giles?” 

“ ’Tis the blessed geodynes, lad. 
Here’s a drink.” 

He took a full bottle from a case 
against the wall. Bob Star gulped down 
half of it, without stopping for breath. 
Still sobbing, Giles Habibula finished 
the remainder. He wiped a forlorn yel- 
low face with the back of his hand. 

“Lad,” he said tearfully, “I was a 
generator man in the legion for nearly 
twenty years. But never did I have 
such a set of geodynes as these, so pow- 
erful, so sweetly tuned. They answered 
my touch as if they had been alive. lad. 
They sang me a song. They loved old 
Giles, lad — as no woman ever did ! 
They talked to him. They understood 
— more than a human being ever did. 

“And the geocjynes are dead, lad — 
dead ! They’ve been murdered, muti- 
lated. Every coil has been broken in a 
thousand places. In every tube, the fila- 
ments and grids have been destroyed. 
The very plates are warped, so that they 
could never be tuned again.” 

“But they look all right, Giles,” said 
Bob Star. 

“Ah, so, lad,” returned the sorrow- 
ful old man. “Their shining beauty is 
left. But the life is gone out of them. 
They are but lovely corpses. I sat here, 
helpless in the paralysis of the green 
mist, and saw them murdered.” 

“Saw them?” echoed Bob Star, ex- 
citedly. “What did you see, Giles ?” 



“Ah, lad,” he said, “ ’twas an evil 
vision. Its memory is a monster, prey- 
ing on my poor old mind. ’Tis a fear- 
ful thing, better drowned in wine than 
kept alive with the nourishment of talk. 
Let’s drink again, lad, and speak of it 
no more !” 

HE brought another bottle out of the 
case by the wall. Bob Star caught it out 
of his hand, and pulled him toward a 
little bench in the end of the room. 

“Sit down, Giles,” he said, his voice 
quick and ringing with eagerness. “Tell 
me what you saw — everything I N ow — 
before you forget. It may help us, 
Giles.” His tone went hard with ur- 
gency. “It may aid us, in the end, to 
kill Stephen Oreo!” 

“Mortal me, lad!” the old man pro- 
tested. 

His small red eyes filmed for a mo- 
ment, with naked, uncomprehending 
horror. His gross bulk shuddered, and 
he reached convulsively for the bottle. 

“Let me drink, lad. For life’s sake, 
give old Giles a taste of blessed obliv- 
ion ! For the thing he saw must be for- 
gotten, lad, or poor old Giles Habibula 
will never again be sane.” 

Bob Star held the bottle away. 

“Just tell me, Giles,” he begged. “Tell 
me everything you saw. Then you may 
drink. But we must know what it is 
we.’re fighting, Giles.” 

“ ’Twould be a crime, lad, to shock 
your young mind with the mortal terror 
of it. Give me the wine.” 

Bob Star bent over him, earnestly. 
“You must tell me,” he insisted, “for 
the sake of my mother. She’s in ter- 
rible danger, Giles. Stephen Oreo is 
hunting her, to murder her. What you 
saw may help us save her. Don’t you 
want to help her?” 

The old man sighed noisily, and re- 
laxed on the bench. 

“Ah, yes, lad.” The yellow mask of 



52 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



his face wanned. “For long, long years, 
poor old Giles Habibula was among the 
loyal guard of Aladoree. And he would 
face that mortal horror again, lad, for 
your blessed mother. Ah, if any act of 
his could save her precious life ” 

“Then tell me ” 

The fish eyes were staring sorrowfully 
at the silent geodynes. 

“Ah, well. I’ll tell you the little I can. 
The thing I saw was strange enough — 
too strange for reason to accept, lad. 
But the mortal horror that froze my 
poor old bones came from what I felt, 
and not from the frightful thing that 
moved before my dim old eyes. 

“Ah, ’tis mad and hideous as a night- 
mare, lad. And it may be but a vision, 
for all I know. For it came when that 
dreadful paralysis was upon me. It 
may be unreal, lad, as the girl you saw 
in ’’ 

Quickly, Bob Star protested: “But 

she wasn’t ” 

“Anyhow,” the old man wheezed, 
“this was more than a shadow on the 
wall. It was real enough to wreck my 
blessed generators.” 

He blew his nose. 

“Exactly,” asked Bob Star, “what did 
you see?” 

“The ache of coming harm has been 
gnawing at my poor old bones ever since 
we left Neptune,” began Giles Habi- 
bula. “Even wine couldn’t kill it. And, 
suddenly, a little while ago, I knew that 
fearful evil had crept into the ship. I 
heard Mark Lardo howling like a tor- 
tured beast. And then the green mist 
dimmed my eyes, and the paralysis 
seized me. 

“Poor old Giles couldn’t move his 
hand, not even to lift a blessed drop of 
wine. 

“Ah, so, lad! I was sitting here on 
the floor, with my back against the wall. 
The bottle was on the floor between my 
legs. But the green haze was growing 



thicker in the room, and I couldn’t get 
the ^bottle to my lips. 

“The blessed generators still were 
singing strong and eager. But I 
couldn’t have stirred to tend them — not 
for life’s sweet sake. 

“And then the thing came into the 
power room. I could hardly turn my 
poor old eyes to see, it, for that mortal 
paralysis. It came partly down the com- 
panion, and partly through the wall, 
lad. And the metal cases of the geo- 
dynes were no barrier to it. 

“It walked across, toward the gen- 
erators ” 

Anxiously, Bob Star’s voice cut in: 
“What was it like, Giles? Was it like a 
man?” 

“Me lad ! ’Twas like no man I” The 
thin old voice was keen-edged with 
dread. “ ’Twas like nothing that old 
Giles ever set his eyes upon. ’Tis bet- 
ter to forget the look of it, lad. For it 
was a thing that no man can look upon, 
and hope to keep his blessed reason.” 

“Can you describe it?” 

“Mortal me I” He shook the wrin- 
kled yellow sphere of his head, and 
swallowed for a huskiness in his throat. 

“Goon. Try ” 

“ ’Twas a thing of moving fire.” His 
small eyes rolled upward. “Ten feet 
tall it stood. The head of it was a point 
of cold-violet fire. It was bright and 
small as a star, and wrapped in a little 
cloud of violet mist. 

“The foot of it was another star of 
red-hot light, at the core of a little moon 
of red haze. And between the violet 
star and the red one was a swirling pil- 
lar of light. Its color was silvery green. 
It was larger in the middle, like a spin- 
dle. And it kept whirling ; it was never 
still. 

“And a broad green ring, two feet 
across, was floating around the middle 
of the spindle. It was like a ring carved 
out of emerald. It was the only solid- 



THE COMETEERS 



53 



looking part of the thing — and it wasn’t 
too solid to pass through the wall. 



“AH, LAD, that’s the way it looked, 
as well as old Giles can tell you. But 
the horror wasn’t in the look of it. The 
horror came from what I felt. It seeped 
into my poor old body, like the fearful 
cold of space. The thing was a magnet 
of living light, lad. And its magnetism 
was pure horror. 

“And all the mortal time, that paraly- 
sis held me. Old Giles sat there on the 
floor, lad. He couldn’t have moved a 
blessed finger, not to save his poor old 
life.’’ 

“Just what did the thing do, Giles?’’ 
Bob Star demanded, tense-voiced. “Tell 
me everything you can.’’ 

“Ah, it did enough to my precious 
geodynes, life knows,’’ he moaned. “It 
came down here into the power rooms, 
partly through the door and partly 
through the wall. 

“It was alive, lad. It was never still. 
The silver-green mist was swirling. The 
red star and the violet star beat like 
hearts of light, in the little moons. Only 
the green ring shone with a steady glow. 

“It came across the floor, lad, to the 
precious generators. And the green- 
white mist swirled out — it reached into 
them, through the metal of their shells. 
The geodynes made a fearful, hurt 
sound, lad. It was their cry of death. 

“They were silent, then. I could hear 
Mark Lardo screaming. 

“The thing left the murdered genera- 
tors. It came toward me.’’ 



Giles Habibula shuddered. Dread 
shadowed the seamed, yellow mask of 
his face. His dull eyes filmed again. 

“Mortal me!’’ he gasped convulsively. 
“I thought old Giles was surely gone 
then, lad I The fearsome creature was 
hungry. I could feel the hunger in it. 
Ah, ’twas a foul and noisome greed ! It 
yearned for the very life, [he n f me. 



“And the greenish, shining mist 
reached out to take me. 

“But then the madman screamed 
again.” Gustily, he sighed. “Ah, 
that’s all that saved old Giles! The 
mortal creature saw me to be an old 
man, and weak with many infirmities, 
and my pitiful shreds of flesh poisoned 
with wine. It heard Mark Lardo 
scream. 

“And it left me, for the sweeter meat 
of a strong young man. 

“It floated up to the roof, lad. The 
cold-violet star went through it, and the 
swirling, silver-green mist. The green 
ring melted into it like a dream, lad. 
And the red star followed. 

“And the thing was gone. 

“I was listening to Mark Lardo. 
There was a stillness, as if he tried to 
hide from the thing, lad. And then he 
screamed again. It was a sound that 
would turn the blessed blood to ice in 
your very heart, lad. It was a shriek of 
agony you can’t forget. 

“And I didn’t hear anything more.” 

Bob Star stood dazed with speechless 
dread, thinking of the bleached, whim- 
pering, shriveled thing he had seen in 
the madman’s cell. 

“Ah, so, lad,” said Giles Habibula, 
“that’s all. And you must agree that 
it is dreadful food for thought. Ah, 
’tis a cruel wound in the mind, lad, that 
must be healed with wine.” 

His eager, trembling hand took the 
bottle. He turned it up. The yellow, 
wrinkled skin of his throat w’orked con- 
vulsively until the last drop had van- 
ished. 

Bob Star stumbled out of the room. 
Like maggot fangs gnawing at his mind 
was memory of the thing in Mark Lar- 
do’s cell: a dreadful husk, with ever)’- 
thing human, all that was living, drained 
from it unspeakably. 

Even the curious, artistic soul of Cap- 
tain Justin Malkar, he thought, could 
hardly have designed or desired a more 



54 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



frightful punishment for the treason, 
the murders, and the cannibalism of 
Mark Lardo. 

XV. 

THE CREATURE in the cell was 
not yet dead when Bob Star forced him- 
self shakily back. It was no longer able 
to move itself, however, bodily. And 
its singular whiteness was flushed with 
curious gleams of disconcerting iri- 
descence. 

A peculiar species of disintegration 
had already set in. 

Perceiving that the being would not 
long possess any manner of life at all. 
Bob Star called Jay Kalam. They 
gathered it up and removed Mark Lar- 
do’s garments from it, which were out- 
rageously too large. 

When they laid it upon the bunk in 
the cell, several of the shriveled fingers 
and toes had already come away. Any 
attempt at medical aid was clearly use- 
less. 

Perplexing indications of life, never- 
theless, persisted for more than an hour. 
During that time the unprecedented dis- 
integration of the flesh continued, with 
an increasing accompaniment of poly- 
chromatic phosphorescence. There was 
no betrayal of intelligence, but from the 
expression of the grinning, shriveled 
head, and from a few whimpering 
sounds the creature made. Bob Star be- 
lieved that it was still aware of agony. 

At last the yellow, smoky light, which 
had been like a dull flame of evil, went 
out of the incredibly sunken eyes. They 
were left terribly white, obviously blind, 
and shimmering with the same rainbow 
iridescence as the rest of the body. 

The thing made one or two more fee- 
ble, reflexive movements. But its state 
was very soon such that anything de- 
scribable as life was hideously impossi- 
ble. 

The remains, still burning with a cold, 
pallid opalescence, began to flow. 

Overcome at last with voiceless hor- 



ror, Jay Kalam nodded his head. Bob 
Star and Hal Samdu rolled what was 
left of Mark Lardo into his blankets, 
and cast it out through the air lock into 
space. 

Jay Kalam spent two hours in the 
minute laboratory aft the galley, with 
a small specimen he had retained for 
analysis. He came out with a solemn, 
baffled face. 

“What I analyzed,” he reported, “was 
not human flesh. Several of the ele- 
ments found in the human body were 
completely lacking ; others were present 
in erratic proportions. Compounds were 
present that are utterly alien to the com- 
position of normal protoplasm. 

“Something,” he concluded gravely, 
“the thing which entered the ship, and 
which caused our temporary uncon- 
sciousness, and which Giles has de- 
scribed to Bob Star — that something fed 
upon Mark Lardo. It consumed some 
ninety pounds of his weight. What it 
left could properly be called neither liv- 
ing nor human.” 

“Commander,” Bob Star asked, in a 
husky, uncertain voice, “what — what do 
you think it was?” 

Jay Kalam rubbed his long, lean jaw. 
His dark, thin brows bunched deliber- 
ately. 

“We expected to encounter no fa- 
miliar form of life upon the comet,” he 
said. “For upon the known planets, 
comparatively slight differences in en- 
vironment have led to tremendous varia- 
tion in living forms. Change, variation, 
specialization, is typical of life. 

“I should grant that our visitor was 
alive. For it manifested intelligence and 
purpose ; it moved, fed. 

“It must be, in a sense, material — 
for it consumed ninety pounds of matter 
from the body of Mark Lardo. Appar- 
ently, however, it is free of some of the 
limitations of matter as we know it. It 
seems to have been interpenetrable with 
the wall of the power room, and, of 
course, with the hull of the ship, also. 



THE COMETEERS 



55 



■‘The Cometeers — it must have been 
one of them — obviously have advanced 
far above us, scientifically. They have 
at their service agencies and instrumen- 
talities that we have not begun to grasp. 
We are forced to suppose them able to 
manipulate matter and energy, perhaps 
even space and time, in ways that we 
cannot fathom.” 

BOB STAR was silent for a time, 
fighting grimly for his belief in the hu- 
manity of the Cometeers — for that 
meant, to him, the reality of the girl 
of his vision. But his faith died, before 
the silent, grisly horror that still stalked 
the ship. 

‘‘I’ve read an old legend,” he whis- 
pered suddenly, ‘‘of things that sucked 
the blood of tbe living — vampires ” 

Jay Kalam looked at him, with his 
dark face drawn into a mask of awful 
dread. 

‘‘The vampire,” he said, “against the 
thing we have witnessed, is a feeble and 
inoffensive myth.” 

His horror-widened eyes stared into 
the cell where Mark Lardo had died. 

“We had wondered at the purpose of 
the Cometeers.” His whisper was 
ghastly, shocking. “I think that now 
we have seen. And I think that the 
doom of humanity will be something 



more hideous than any man has ever 
dreamed.” 

A harsh, inarticulate rumbling came 
from Hal Samdu. 

“I think,” the commander’s faint 
whisper went on, “that they have come 
to the system for food.” 

“Fight ! We must fight !” rasped Hal 
Samdu. “Giles, you must fix the gen- 
erators !” 

Tears glistened in the old man’s eyes. 

“Ah, nie,” he cried, “it cannot be 
done! My beauties — they were mur- 
dered ” 

Bob Star returned with Jay Kalam 
to the bridge. 

“We are now beyond the repulsion,” 
he repot ted, when he had taken observa- 
tions, “although we are still flying away 
from the comet with our acquired mo- 
mentum. 

“There is still fuel for the rockets,” 
he said. “But apparently we can’t hope 
to enter the comet. And we are two 
billion miles outside the system ” 

He laughed shortly, bitterly. 

“With only the rockets ” 

At that moment red telltales flamed ; 
the ship quivered to the clangor of alarm 
gongs. He whirled back to the instru- 
ments and gasped, breathless : “Asteroid 
ahead !” 



TO BE CONTINUED. 




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Ecce Homo 



by Chan 
Corbett 



A study of the distant future 



B ehold the man! Ecce 

Homo! The heir of all the ages, 
the sum total to which the driv- 
ing evolutionary force that had infected 
the first formless blob of protoplasm 
with the strange disease known as life 
had inevitably led — El, superman of the 
millennial century ! 

El lay snugly incased in his bath of 
nutrient liquid. He was perfection, the 
ultimate! The long, slow climb from 
the amceba was over. All the strange, 
queer, primitive forms that had inhabited 
the Earth for millions of years had ex- 
isted only that El might eventually be 
achieved. 

It was for liim that life had spawned 
and struggled ; it was for him that a 
hundred thousand types had been tested 
and cast away as wanting by a care- 
lessly profuse nature; it was for him 
that apelike forms deserted their trees 
and used prehensile thumbs for grasp- 
ing tools and weapons instead of 
branches ; it was for him that the savage 
grew into a society, the society into a 
primitive civilization. 

It was with him in mind that man 
toiled and pioneered and invented and 
fought, climbing through the slow, in- 
evitable ages toward the godlike. El, 
physically immortal, mentally omnis- 
cient ! 

Long before, unimaginable centuries 
of time, Earth had been inclosed in a 
crystal shell, even as El. No wander- 
ing meteor could pierce its infinite hard- 
ness, no inimical radiation from the ex- 
plosions of extra-galactic space could 
penetrate its exterior. Air and water 
and warmth no longer seeped in irre- 
mediable waste into the outer void ; 
weather was a function under strict con- 



trol. Coal, oil, tides were long for- 
gotten. The almost infinite power of 
the atom furnished warmth, food, mo- 
tive force, everything. 

El was a geometric round, a mem- 
branous sac immersed within the nu- 
trient liquid of the sphere. Nothing 
else! But his constant attendant, Jem, 
was a man, normal in form and limbs, 
not much dissimilar from the primitive 
creatures who had inhabited Earth as 
far back as the twentieth century. 

Jem and his kind had been bred care- 
fully for static, non-evolving qualities. 
It all dated from that vast upheaval in 
the eighty-ninth century, after the cata- 
clysm. The survivors of mankind had 
divided into two classes. The Masters 
forged ahead, under the leadership of 
one Jones. He had discovered the , se- 
cret of controlled mutations. Drosophila 
flies, exalted to the nth degree, so to 
speak. Methods of shifting genes, those 
tiny units of heredity within the nuclear 
material of the cell; methods of chemi- 
cal activation of desirable genes and 
eradication of those that seemed un- 
necessary. 

OF COURSE, the initial efforts of 
Jones were halting, somewhat fumbling. 
But the race he evolved, with accentua- 
ated minds and specific talents, im- 
proved and reimproved, until — ^behold I 
El and his kind came into being. 

There were only a few of these. 
Naturally! Jones had a certain fierce 
contempt for the vast body and gener- 
ality of mankind. It was a pity, thought 
he, that the cataclysm had not eradi- 
cated the unwanted commoners. But, 
being a biologist, and not a man of war, 
he devoted himself to his superrace, his 







mm 



te 












The orb Red with blasting speed through resistant air, over 

machines 



the ever-iunctioning cities of the 



aristocracy of Masters, rather than to 
the completion of the task of destruc- 
tion. 

As for the others, the progenitors of 
Jem, they were at first permitted to 



spawn in the teeming disorder of an 
elder day. Gradually, however, as the 
Masters grew separate and apart, and 
the gulf widened between them, it was 
inevitable for the normal, primitive type 



58 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



of humans to become subject and sub- 
ordinate, to be given the menial tasks 
of life. 

As even these were eventually taken 
over in tolo by the ever-increasing com- 
plexity of the machines, and the manual, 
laborious work of earlier times became 
a dim anachronism, the usefulness of 
the Attendants grew less and less. 

Then it was that the Masters of the 
hundred thousandth century took them 
in hand — though even then, the term 
“hand” had become purely a metaphor, 
a figure of speech, related to nothing 
physical in the structure of the Masters. 

The Attendants were ruthlessly ex- 
terminated as lower forms of life whose 
presence disturbed and cluttered up the 
surface of the Earth. All, that is, ex- 
cept for a certain number, thereafter 
carefully to he bred by a proper manipu- 
lation of the genes for loyalty, submis- 
siveness, for fanatical devotion to the 
Masters. Not, it must be understood, 
to the body of Masters as a whole — 
the supermen were too fiercely individ- 
ualistic for such low-grade, communal 
conceptions — but for lifelong attachment 
to a single Master, and that one alone. 

But to -return to El, in that unim- 
aginable century of tbe future whose 
very number was staggering. The ideal 
had been reached, the end of all the 
Masters’ artificial evolution. Beyond 
him there was — nothing! 

He was a round, membranous sac — 
the perfect geometric figure. He had 
no arms or legs or other vestigial or- 
gans. They were useless. Translation 
in space, the satisfaction of all physical 
needs, the regulation of a well-patterned 
world, Were all infinitely better accom- 
plished by the vast complex of ma- 
chinery, automatic, robotlike, self-start- 
ing, self-regenerative. Nor had he heart 
or lungs ot the muddled, intricate mess 
of viscera and skeletal framework of an 
earlier era. 

Consciousness, thought, awareness, 
intellectuilization and brooding on the 



few remaining unsolved problems of the 
universe — what else was required? So 
that, in the interests of symmetry and 
a beautiful, ordered efficiency, El and 
his brethren were evolved. 

Without arteries to harden, bones to 
grow brittle, hearts to wear out, stom- 
achs to ulcerate under the pressure of 
crude, natural foods, small wonder that 
he was immortal ! A huge, convoluted 
brain, inclosed in an indestructable sac, 
in turn inclosed in a bath of nutrient 
ichor, which oozed by osmotic processes 
through the sac, and fed, regenerated 
and cleansed the pulsing brain within. 

But, alas ! Nature, outwitted, arti- 
ficialized, twisted into a seemly order by 
this race of supermen, had exacted a 
profound revenge! For perfection, the 
too-perfect, had never been contemplated 
by a universe of rawness, of cruelty, of 
alternate birtb and destruction, of fum- 
bling trial and error, of blasting nova 
and lifeless suns, of relativity and ex- 
panding, out-rushing nebulae. 

El and his mates had achieved ! 
There was no longer anything left for 
them to seek. The physical, the ex- 
ternal, had been conquered, utterly sub- 
dued. They alone survived in a world 
whose every aspect was predictable, 
controlled. All other forms of life vrere 
extinct, destroyed as unnecessary, waste- 
ful — except for the Attendants. 

II. 

IN AN EARLIER TIME the Mas- 
ters had thrilled to the conquest of 
other planets, but that had also died in 
the achievement. With their mighty 
machines, the supermen soon trans- 
formed cinder-burned Mercury and 
frozen-gas Pluto to exact replicas of the 
Earth. They tired of the game in the 
course of ages. Even the far off, beck- 
oning stars held no further lure. With 
their machines they could have hurled 
themselves across the intervening space, 
but to what profit? To recreate but 



ECCE HOMO 



59 



another Earth, similar in every respect 
to the home they had quitted. 

So they abandoned the planets and 
returned to Earth. There were not 
many of them — so there was ample space 
for all, for the individual solitude they 
craved. Slowly, one by one, the few 
remaining intellectual problems were 
solved. There was nothing more. Evo- 
lution had ceased ; growth had become 
a stagnant pool. 

Appalling boredom ! Profound qui- 
escence ! The weight of passivity grew 
insupportable. The machines required 
no attending, the devotion of the At- 
tendants was almost the only fillip left 
to life. A fierce possessiveness waxed 
in the highly convoluted Masters, an 
overmastering delight, ludicrously primi- ■■ 
tive, for the constant little ministrations 
of these static replicas of primordial 
time. 

Had there been a spirit of covetous- 
ness, too, of desire for the Attendants 
of their fellows as well as their own, 
all might yet have been well. For this 
would have produced dissatisfaction, 
biologic urges, envies, annihilations, war 
— and perfection would have exploded 
with a loud, resounding crash. Life 
would have been recreated on a lower 
plane, raw, cruel no doubt, but with the 
upward path a shining incentive before 
them. 

But, unfortunately, the Masters were 
supermen, complete. They looked not 
with envy upon the Attendants of their 
fellcnvs ; they had sufficiency in their sin- 
gle slave. Not that their services were 
required ; the machines could have per- 
formed the little tasks far better. But 
the Attendants had become a fixed tra- 
dition, and the Masters looked upon 
change as something brutal, primitive, 
from which their delicate convolutions 
shrank with fastidious repugnance. 

The need for change had died. 
Processes slowed, ceased. So slowly, 
so imperceptibly, that one by one the 
Masters passed into oblivion without 



any one, not even the hovering Attend- 
ant, quite knowing that he had died. 

Their deaths were nothing organic, 
had nothing to do with disease. They 
represented merely a cessation of en- 
ergy changes, a degradation into a wave- 
less, motionless state of inertia. 

EL OBSERVED the slow attrition 
of his fellows with what was at first 
indifferent torpor. What did it mat- 
ter? What did anything matter? Be- 
ing or nonbeing; it was all the same. 
He lay in his bath, feeding automatically, 
soaking in with a vast quiescence the 
physical impressions of the universe. 

He had no eyes for seeing, no ears 
for hearing. Instead, every quiver of 
a molecule in the material scheme of 
things; every shift of state of an elec- 
tron in its orbit, sent its pulsing waves 
through empty space and barrier matter 
alike to impinge on the delicate con- 
volutions of the brain. 

- The hidden round of the Antipodes, 
the masked, invisible nebulae of the outer 
darkness, disclosed their secrets to his 
receptive neurons equally with the phys- 
ical texture of Jem, hovering inter- 
minably before his crystal containment. 

El yawned — that is, if a yawn had 
been possible. A settled boredom was 
upon him. Jem, the hundredth in de- 
scent of a long, remote-stretching line 
of descendants, no longer amused him. 

Jem fed him deftly. It was almost 
his only function. For this he had been 
reared; for this he lived, until his spe- 
cific span of mortal years was ended. 
Five hundred years an Attendant lived, 
and died to the expected second. 

Jem soon finished his task, then hum- 
bly fed himself with a cruder, more 
bulky food out of a special container 
in the carrier machine. He was tall, 
youthful-looking, virile, handsome by 
the standards of an earlier age. He had 
been bred for physique and regularity. 
As the machine rose and flew swiftly 
away he squatted before his master, in 



60 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



patient, perpetual expectation of new 
commands. 

El’s gaze — a crude term, expressing 
really the patterned interior reception of 
energized states — flicked over him in- 
differently. He was tired of that per- 
petual attitude. He was tired of every- 
thing, even the ichor that nourished 
him. His gaze drifted past him, over 
the smooth, hard expanse of Earth, a 
vitreous, even floor on which no tree 
or tesselated patch of grass broke the 
monotonous stretching, past the cities of 
the machines, seeking for the nonce the 
quiescent spheres of his fellows. 

Round and through the Earth he 
bored, seeking. Something sharpened 
within him, quivered — a strangely new 
sensation, the first almost in uncounted 
years. The process had been so slow, 
so imperceptible, that, though the per- 
ception of it had naturally impinged on 
him as it progressed, awareness of its 
totality, of its meaning, had completely 
eluded him. Now for the first time he 
saw what had happened through the 
sluggish centuries, saw it with a realiza- 
tion that ripped through his quiescence 
like a flash of atomic disintegration. 

HI. 

THE RACE of Masters had died out 
— they and their respective Attendants ! 
On all the Earth, in all the universe, 
only two remained : El, and — at the 
Antipodes — Om ! His similar sphere 

glowed in the eternal rays ; it cradled in 
its hemispherical base even as El’s did. 
And, squatting before its majestic orb, 
was an Attendant, a female, tall and 
straight even as Jem, but with slimmer 
limbs, more delicate face. 

El and Om, sole remnants of the race 
of perfect beings ! The rest had ceased 
to be, quietly and willfully, seeing no 
good reason to continue an interminable 
sameness of existence. One by one, 
each in his respective sphere, until the 
machines, finding the ichor untouched 



and the Attendants gone or sprawled in 
moveless death, removed the master — a 
bulge of brain sac in a clouded fluid — 
for swift incineration in the disruptor 
tubes. 

A quiver coursed through El’s in- 
volved convolutions. Thought shim- 
mered and played with lightning swift- 
ness. Strange stirrings moved, and had 
their being within his depths. Neurons 
darkened with chemical change, long- 
disused synaptic paths channelized and 
broke contacts with breath-taking rap- 
idity. For the first time in misty eons 
El felt the surge of new ideas, of the 
strange and novel rise of fierce, urgent 
emotions of which he had had formerly 
only an intellectual, apathetic awareness. 

It was a tremendous sensation. The 
gray, pulpy matter of his being actually 
shook within its sac, like a storm-swept 
sea. It was agonizing, delicious in its 
very tortured unaccustomedness. Life 
suddenly blurred and misted at the 
edges, evolved before him with incalcu- 
lable forces. He almost sang and ex- 
ulted. A faint buzz of electric friction 
actually exuded through the sphere. 
Life had a purpose, meaning, direction, 
once more. He tested his emotions and 
found them good. 

What were they? What had caused 
this sudden snapping of the self-suffi- 
cient, moveless perfection of an ageless 
time? What strange, illimitable forces 
had been brought into play? The an- 
swer is exceedingly strange. 

It was the sight of Om, his fellow and 
equal ; it was the sight of An, his at- 
tendant. From the tiny dislocation of a 
single atom a new universe is sometimes 
born ; another destroyed. El knew the 
majestic march of cause and effect, but 
for the nonce he possessed not his 
former wisdom to probe them deeply 
and without distortion. Certain emo- 
tions had been born in him full grown, 
and they clouded his ordered faculties, 
hid the future. Which was excellent; 
which was the very essence of life ! 



ECCE HOMO 



61 



“Jem!” he said to his attendant, 
“come closer. We are going to visit 
Om.” Now it must not be considered 
that El had a mouth, a larynx for the 
formation of sounds. His speech was 
a mechanical contrivance, activated by 
the electric surge of his brain. For 
himself, for the rare conversings with his 
equals, mere willing was sufficient. 

Jem was startled. It was on the most 
infrequent occasions that the master 
spoke to him, and then only on little 
matters of really inconsequential attend- 
ance. But this was staggering. Never, 
in his memory, had El stirred from his 
timeless, moveless condition on his cra- 
dling base. 

“Om?” he queried vaguely, puckering 
up his brows with unaccustomed 
thought. He did not know Om ; had 
never seen him. His eyes were the 
eyes — a little sharper focused, perhaps 
— of the man of the eightieth century. 
He could not see around the earth, some 
twelve thousand miles away. 

“Yes, Om !” his master repeated with 
a touch of impatience — a wholly new 
quality. “Obey my orders, fool.” 

AS IN A DREAM, and because 
obedience was a matter of inherited 
genes, Jem moved forward, close to the 
sphere. A strange force caught at him, 
sucked him sprawling to the crystal 
convex. 

Then, suddenly, the orb with its im- 
mersed perfection, rose into the quiet 
stillness, fled with whistling, blasting 
speed through resistant air, over whir- 
ring, ever-functioning cities of the ma- 
chines, over huge, wide monotonies 
where nothing stirred, nothing moved. 
Earth was a vast graveyard, devoid of 
life, of all things but the soulless, un- 
knowing machines. 

The wind howled and tried to pluck 
Jem from his eerie perch; the breath 
labored and gasped in his lungs as they 
rushed along. In a thrill of strange new 
terror he cried out to his master to slow 



his awful speed, to return to his famil- 
iar base and renew the ordered quies- 
cence of his former being. 

But El paid no heed. For one thing, 
the novel wishes of his attendant were 
weightless, insubordinate even ; for an- 
other, a fierce impatience glowed within 
him, a sparkling, crackling turbulence 
that surprised, even as it elated him. 

Like a plummeting meteor the sphere 
plunged to Earth beside Om, settled 
without a jar. A carrier machine came 
swiftly forward deposited a hemispheri- 
cal base on the ground, and went off in 
noiseless flight. El lifted, dropped into 
the base, settled into seeming quiescence. 

The force of supermagnetism that had 
held Jem gasping to the incasement of 
his master, vanished as suddenly as it 
had sprung into being. Jem tottered 
back, loose, befuddled, his brain, un- 
used to cataclysms of this order, seeth- 
ing with new impressions. The sight 
of Om was not in itself disturbing. He 
was like unto his master, indistinguish- 
able as star with star. But An ! 

He had seen only one other Attend- 
ant before in all his life — a male who 
had wandered masterless into the re- 
stricted horizon of his vision, and top- 
pled dead on the hard, smooth surface. 
But this creature, who had cried out 
sharply at the terror of their whistling 
approach and had been silent ever since, 
staggered him! 

He sensed that she was like unto 
himself, yet somehow subtly unlike. She 
was slimmer, more delicate, for one 
thing. Strange sensations welled 
through him; sensations he had never 
experienced before. 

She was watching him also, a little 
apart, with sidelong glances, that pre- 
tended to be unaware of his presence, 
yet embraced him completely. They did 
things to his internal economy. Deli- 
cious thrills coursed over him, set him 
tingling. 

An irresistible urge swept him closer ; 
to touch her, to feel for himself this 



62 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



new miracle. Never before had he for- 
gotten, like this, even for an instant, 
his consuming absorption in his mas- 
ter. She must have sensed his parlous 
state, for as he moved, she darted 
swiftly, gracefully, to the other side of 
Om’s incasing sphere, as if for protec- 
tion. Jem stopped, bewildered, like 
males in all the ages, at this rebirth of 
feminine coquetry. 

Om knew that El had arrived. It 
was an invasion on his privacy, a thing 
that had been scrupulously respected for 
an hundred thousand years. But he 
did not resent it. Resentment liad no 
place in the perfect end product of evo- 
lution. What did it matter anyway? 
The mere physical transposition of a 
fellow being did nothing to color ex- 
istence with novelty for him. Had he 
wished discourse with El, he could easily 
have held it at twelve thousand inter- 
vening miles. 

But what profit would there have been 
in discourse? El knew nothing he did 
not know ; both were perfection, hold- 
ing already in wearied embrace all the 
knowledge, all the inner contemplations, 
of a known and patent universe. So he 
said nothing, did nothing, to evidence 
an awareness of El’s presence. In fact, 
it had already retreated into the recesses 
of his consciousness. 

FOR a long while there was silence, 
profound, immutable. The attendants 
had squatted once more before their re- 
spective masters, seemingly engrossed in 
their tasks, seemingly unaware of each 
other. 

El waited a decent interval. In- 
wardly he seethed with impatience, with 
eagerness to put into effect his care- 
fully mapped out plan. 

“Om!” he permitted the thought to 
emanate. 

“What do you wish, El ?” The query 
came back without any sign of interest, 
or real desire to be informed. 

“You and I are the last of our race.” 



“Yes, I know.” Om betrayed no ex- 
citement. It was a mere affirmation of 
an unimportant fact. 

“Our fellows died,” pursued El 
craftily, “because there was no reason 
for further existence.” 

“That is true,” responded the other 
indifferently. 

“Why do we not do the same?” in- 
quired El. “I am wearied of continued, 
interminable sameness. An eternity of 
dead monotony appalls me.” 

"The universe will not last forever,” 
Om pointed out. 

“It will last for frightening eons,” El 
declared. 

“We shall cease to be, even as our 
fellows, before that, no doubt,” said Om 
and withdrew his thoughts. 

But El was not discouraged. “Why 
should we wait?” he asked. “Let us 
seek the ultimate extinction now, at 
once.” 

“It would be senseless effort.” 

“Not at all,” El persisted. “Do you 
realize what it would mean? The de- 
liberate destruction of our own entities. 
The lopping off of immortality with a 
single, sharp and speedy stroke. The 
one thing that none of our kind has 
ever experienced. Something new at 
last, something novel in the long, weari- 
some history of the race. The one thing 
we have sought in vain in a too-obvious 
universe. The thrill of suicide, the 
notable defiance of ourselves. 

“Come, let us join in this last mighty 
gesture. With one stroke we wipe out 
life in toto, leave an infinite space time 
to the sterile movements of insensate 
electrons, protons, mere puckers in the 
texture of the all. What say you?” 

Om stirred. His brain sac quivered 
in its nutrient bath. El had insinuated 
something new in his concepts. Suicide, 
self-annihilation, the elimination by their 
act of life itself ! They twain, alone and 
solitary on the pinnacle of perfection, 
achieving at one irreversible stroke the 
superpinnacle of a superperfection. Be- 



ECCE HOMO 



63 



yond them nothing — nothingness ! Now 
and for all eternity! A magnificent con- 
ception I 

El waited with strained anxiety for 
the answer. Had his arguments, born 
of his newly acquired state, won over 
the calm, broodless indifference of his 
fellow solitary? 

“Very well,” said Om at last. “It is 
no doubt the best way for us to end. 
How shall we accomplish this ultimate 
act?” 

A surge of exultation swept over El. 
He had won! But carefully he veiled 
his thoughts in a closed electrical orbit. 
Only the answer he willed emerged. 

“Very simply. Do not exert yourself. 
I shall take care of the matter myself. 
I shall call the machines.!’ 

Not for thousands of years had it 
b^en deemed necessary to call the ma- 
chines. They were self-energizing, self- 
reproductive, geared for all possible re- 
quired tasks. But now, in obedience to 
the short-wave impingement of El’s will 
on key units in the city of the machines, 
two great metal monsters, with pointed 
noses like ancient torpedoes, rose swiftly 
from the towers, sped like hurtling 
asteroids along beam channels direct for 
the waiting, immovable spheres. 

Om watched their rushing progress 
with calm indifference. In seconds 
there would be a crash, and then 

“Their paths include the orbit of our 
attendants, no doubt,” he suggested. 
“They, too, are life, though of an in- 
ferior order.” 

“Naturally,” assented El craftily. “I 
have already plotted the courses.” His 
mechanical voice rasped suddenly. 
“Jem, stand over to that side — there — 
do not move.” 

Om gave like directions to An^ 

THE two attendants moved submis- 
sively to the appointed spot their mas- 
ters had ordered. Male and female, 
closer together than two attendants ever 
had been before, aware of their near- 



ness, feeling a subtle, exotic interplay 
of forces. Jem saw the hurtling giants 
of destruction, saw them without fear, 
without thought of avoidance. It had 
been El’s command. An felt a swift 
tremor, a surge of something within her 
she could not understand — yet she made 
no move. 

Silently the masters and their attend- 
ants waited. The swift metallic en- 
gines came on with a swoosh of scream- 
ing air; nearer, nearer. Om’s repose 
was intellectual, controlled. Annihila- 
tion, existence — neither mattered. But 
El concealed his processes in an im- 
penetrable orbit of interlocking waves, 
waiting for the supreme moment. 

Closer ! Closer ! The great torpe- 
does — tons of glistening metal — roared 
directly for the crystal spheres. An 
cried out sharply. There was a rending, 
splintering sound. Quartz shattered 
into a million jagged shards, nutrient 
ichor spattered geyserlike into the ambi- 
ent air ; a brain sac punctured like thin- 
nest film. Om — a huge, twisted con- 
volution of gray, spongy matter — spread 
fanlike in a rain of tiny, writhing blobs. 
Om was dead, annihilated before An's 
horrified eyes. Her master, the nexus 
of her being, was no more ! 

The second machine, abreast of its 
mate, smashed toward El. Almost at 
the instant of impact, so close to the 
fragile crystal incasement that barely a 
millimicron separated thrusting nose 
and shimmering quartz, El exerted alt 
his mighty powers to the utmost. 

A wave of meshed vibrations leaped 
out from his quivering brain to meet 
the invader, an impenetrable force wall 
against which stellite hardness smashed 
and fused into a flaming, futile disin- 
tegration. 

A paean of triumph sang inaudibly 
in the gray jelly of El. Life sang 
through him — life triumphant, supernal, 
irresistible. He had achieved his goal. 
Om was dead, even as he had cunningly 



64 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



planned, unknowing to the end that he 
had been outwitted. 

El looked out on the universe and 
saw that it was good. He was the last 
of his race, the solitary perfection in a 
world that held no other. What a glo- 
rious vista! No longer was eternity a 
frightening prospect. An endless time 
was not too long in which to contem- 
plate the mastery of an entire universe, 
in which to brood on himself — the abso- 
lute, the unique, the single splendor! 

No wonder his fellows had willfully 
ceased to exist. They were end prod- 
ucts, but the all-embracing egoism from 
which the spark of life enkindles was 
not theirs. There were others — even as 
they. A dead level, a stupid equality 
of perfection. At one leap he had 
spanned the gulf, thrust himself into a 
glorious new state. There was no other 
El in all infinity. He was the ultimate, 
the unsurpassable! 

IV. 

JEM sat quietly before his master. 
Dim, unaccustomed thoughts struggled 
in his brain, yet without present effect. 
His task was implicit obedience, adora- 
tion. But An — the girl ! She had cried 
out at the sight of her master’s immo- 
lation. She had seen with wide eyes 
and affrighted mind the trick that had 
been played. Anger stirred; a new, a 
frightening sensation. 

El viewed the chaos of her thoughts, 
read them easily, without effort. He 
could have killed h?r easily. According 
to tradition she should die — a Master- 
less Attendant. But he had broken with 
tradition, had placed himself beyond 
those subtle, binding cords. With this 
new state had come new emotions. 
\’’anity had been one, possessiveness an- 
other. He wished her for himself ; he 
desired more than a single Attendant. 

He envisioned other possibilities. For 
vast ages Attendants had been repro- 
duced by solitary parthenogenesis. Now 



he would mate this pair, as in the long 
dim past. There would be variations, 
complexities. He would rear a horde 
of Attendants — subordinate forms of 
life, lowly, submissive — with which to 
amuse his eternal contemplation. It 
was good ! 

“An !” his thoughts filtered through 
the mechanical enunciator with metallic 
sound, “your master, Om, has ceased 
his being. I am your master now. It 
is my will that you and Jem, my at- 
tendant, mate for the propogation of 
a new race.” 

Jem stared. He did not quite under- 
stand, but vague racial instincts stirred 
within him. He glanced quickly at An 
and the sight was pleasing. Her face, 
so delicate and different from his own, 
was queerly the color of the distant Sun 
as it fell unheeded below the horizon. 

She did not look at him; could not, 
somehow. Her heart was thumping ; 
a sense of shame, unfelt before, per- 
vaded her being. Shame, and this new 
novelty of flaming anger. Then she did 
a monstrous thing — a thing unthinkable. 
She rebelled. 

“El !” she flared at the moveless brain 
sac in the crystal sphere, “I will not. I 
am not your attendant. My master is 
dead, done to extinction by some in- 
comprehensible treachery of yours. I 
shall die — it is my duty, my necessity 
— but I shall not obey your commands.” 

El could have slain her then and there 
for her defiance. But he did not wish 
that. He had plans, bound up inex- 
tricably with this new confusion of emo- 
tions that coursed through him with 
novel thrills. 

“You shall neither die nor disobey,” 
he said coldly. “Jem,” he proceeded, 
“behold, she is your mate. Go to her !” 

Jem was shocked. How dared this 
strange girl — this being whose nearness 
made him feel warm all over — defy the 
mighty master? He moved slowly to- 
ward her, obedient to the command 
of El. 



AST-4 



ECCE HOMO 



65 



An faced him bravely. Her face was 
the deep-red of copper, her eyes held 
strange scorn. “Jem,” she said, “come 
no nearer. I hate you, I despise you. 
You are not a man ; you are an attend- 
ant, an obedient automaton to the will 
of your master.” 

Jem stopped, dazed, bewildered. The 
whip of this young girl’s scorn cut and 
wounded. Yet slie seemed infinitely de- 
sirable, though she hated him. Why? 
He was only obeying the command of 
his master, as was right and just. While 
she 

Still he did not speak. Speech was 
painful, slow to him. He had not had 
much occasion to use it. Neither did he 
advance. 

El received the vibrations of his con- 
fusion. He saw no rebellion therein; 
only such stupidity as was normal to 
an Attendant. El, too, had lost some- 
thing, though he did not realize it. Per- 
fection had become a little less than per- 
fect. Life in a ferment, fraught with 
vigorous emotions, could not be static. 
So that he did not read aright the tor- 
tuous neurone paths that were forming 
in Jem’s brain. 

ANGER, rage, stimulating, electric, 
yet clouding to an all-awareness, raced 
through El. An Attendant, a crawl- 
ing form of life, had defied him! An, 
a slim and delicate thing. The metallic 
syllables of his speech comported oddly 
with the words. “Jem !” he cried. “I 
order you — seize this rebel. She is 
yours. On pain of annihilation I insist 
upon your obedience. Do not dare 
aught else.” 

He had lost his head — to use an an- 
cient phrase. The poison toxins of 
anger, of mad, unthinking rage, dark- 
ened the gray of his convolutions. 
Thereby he forfeited his dignity, his 
power. 

Jem heard and wondered. He saw 
the girl. An. There was a new look 

AST— 5 



in her eyes. A look of fear, of help- 
less, imploring appeal. A feminine ap- 
peal. Racial instincts stirred again. He 
felt protective, masculine. He felt all- 
powerful in the light of those eyes. 
Overwhelming rage swept over him. 
But rage was an emotion suited to his 
primitive body, its appendages and mus- 
cles. What was degradation to a Mas- 
ter was a source of strength to an At- 
tendant. Red madness seethed against 
the one who had made this girl to hate 
him, to dread his approach. 

Without quite knowing what he did, 
he bent suddenly. A strut of the ma- 
chine which El had fused lay on the 
ground. It was a short bar, incredibly 
hard and compact. He swept it up into 
his hand, hurled it with all his strength. 
The distance was short, the movement 
exceedingly fast. Yet to El — who could 
stop a hundred ton missile in midflight, 
who could, with the exertion of his own 
inner powers, swing the Earth out of 
its orbit and send it hurtling to the 
farthest galaxy — this was child’s play. 

But El was no longer El ! He was 
a new being, overwhelmed with envy, 
with passion, with covetousness, with 
vanity, with rage. In that vital second 
he was literally blinded — unable to think 
coherently. Later he would have un- 
derstood, would have taken measures 
to regain his old clarity. But it was 
too late. 

The short, thick bar crashed through 
the quartz, clawed the liquid nutrient, 
punctured the membranous sac. El 
gushed forth, an oozing, tangled mass 
of pulpy brain, to mingle in horrible 
flow with amber liquid and jagged nee- 
dles of shattered quartz. El was dead. 

Jem stared stupidly, hardly grasping 
what he had done in that instant of an- 
cient emotion. His master was dead; 
he was a Masterless Attendant I He had 
slain with his puny hands the mighty 
one, the all knowing ! The world 
rocked and reeled before him, the cease- 



66 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



less vita rays darkened on his vision. 
A low moan escaped his tortured lips. 
What had he done? What would hap- 
pen to him now ? 

HE WAS brought to his senses by 
the sound of some one calling him, by 
the touch of soft fingers on his arms. 
“Jem ! Jem !” Unaccountably it was 
An. “I am proud of you ! You are 
wonderful ! You have killed the mighty 
El unaided. I — I love you !” 

He opened his eyes, incredulous. 
What was that? What had she said? 
She approved— more than that — ^thought 
him wonderful ! She loved him ! 
Words that had come from remote an- 
cestors, that had been lost for incredible 
centuries. His chest swelled; he stared 
with a certain condescension at the 
adoring girl. He even strutted a bit. 
“Pooh! It was nothing!” he said. “I 
could do it again. I am stronger than 
a Master.” 

Deep down within him he knew, of 
course, that El had been the last of his 
race, yet he actually helieved in his new- 
found strength. Especially in the re- 
flected light of An’s eyes. He took her 
arm masterfully, drew her to him. She 
did not resist. 



But then, in the transports of that 
first kiss, he suddenly shivered. They 
were alone — the two of them — alone in 
an alien universe. No Masters, no 
other Attendants, only the strange, im- 
personal machines ! He drew back. 
“What shall we do now. An?” he asked 
timidly. 

“Do?” she echoed with the guile of 
the serpent, and the wisdom of all 
women. “Why, dearest, you are a man, 
and you will provide. There are the 
machines — you will force them to their 
wonted tasks. You shall be their mas- 
ter, instead of El and Om and the others 
who ceased before them.” 

“I had intended that all along,” Jem 
said hastily. He believed it, too. He 
bent toward her, whispered something. 
She flushed as she slipped her arm in 
his. 

“A new race!” she breathed in awe. 
“A race of men and women like our- 
selves to people this Earth again, to 
strive, to conquer, to seek new knowl- 
edge always.” Her eyes brooded on the 
infinite with tender gaze, this mother 
of a new and upward-groping life. 

Slowly they walked toward the city 
of the machines. 





“Then I fell in — from a long jump! I couldn’t avoid it!” 



At the Center of Gravity 



Accident in the spaceways! 

by Ross Rocklynne 



T he two of them, Lieutenant 
Jack Colbie and Edward 
Deverel, hung suspended with- 
out visible support in a space which, had 
it not been for the beam of light thrown 
by the lieutenant on his captured pris- 
oner, would have been quite dark. 



Jack Colbie was a direct social op- 
posite of the other man. And Jack 
Colbie, of the Interplanetary Police 
Force, was widely known as a relent- 
less tracker of criminals. Edward 
Deverel was the criminal, at the present 
instant, and Colbie had caught up with 





68 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



him. The chase had started in Deverel’s 
own domain, the domain of his piratical 
activities — the red deserts of Mars, and 
the broad canals that cut through them. 

Both were clad in the tough, insu- 
lated, smoothly curving suits that man 
must wear in space. The transparent 
helmets afforded external vision, and 
now Deverel was looking through his at 
Colbie, insolently. But, since the scant 
illumination Colbie received came from 
the reflection of the beam he held on his 
prisoner, Deverel saw him as a gray 
shadow on the complete darkness 
stretching away behind. 

“Well?” he inquired, with a disdain- 
ful flash of his white teeth, whiter still 
in the light of the beam. 

“Well, nothing. Don’t look so 
peeved. What else did you expect? 
You knew I’d catch up with you. I’ve 
got to maintain an unbroken record.” 

Deverel shrugged his shoulders. 
They could just be seen through his 
helmet. “Precedent doesn’t prove any- 
thing.” 

“Oh, I suppose not. Forget it.” 
Colbie studied the corsair’s face. De- 
verel was good-looking, undoubtedly — 
better-looking than Colbie, certainly, 
who had a ravaged profile and a long 
jaw. 

Deverel’s nose was straight; he pos- 
sessed attractive, but almost bitterly 
formed, lips ; his eyes were blue, and 
the constant inner deviltry of his nature 
burned in their depths. 

“Let’s forget you’re my prisoner. 
Let’s talk a while. I’m curious as to 
why you landed on Vulcan.” 

“Why ?” Deverel laughed. “Did you 
want me to take a dive into the Sun? 

“Well, you were crowding me. I had 
to leave Mars, of course, when my band 
of canal marauders succumbed before 
Jack Colbie and his police. You chased 
me, Colbie, as I’ve never before been 
chased in this incarnation. I was go- 
ing to land on Earth — I could have 
found a hide-out— but you headed me 



off. So I tried Venus. Same thing. 
So what was left but Vulcan? Mer- 
cury was fooling around somewhere on 
the other side of the Sun. 

“Oh, I guess I was a fool to land, 
since I knew that was what you wanted 
me to do. But you know what empty 
space and stars do to a man. The big- 
ness of things gives him a colossal in- 
feriority complex, and it puts him in the 
mood for anything. What I mean is, 
a man doesn’t care. I was feeling some- 
thing of that, and besides, I was tired 
of running, of being chased. That’s 
why I landed on Vulcan, when I knew 
there wasn’t a hiding place on its smootla 
surface.” 

“And, as it turned out,” Colbie put 
in, “there was a hiding place. Only, I 
found you.” 

“And what good’s it going to do 
you?” Deverel laughed in genuine 
amusement. “I’ve just been checking, 
and, according to the oxygen gauge, I 
won’t live for twenty-four hours. I’ll 
bet a binary your tank is in the same 
condition. There isn’t any way of es- 
cape. 

“Well,” he went on in a dreamy 
fashion, “I suppose I’ve been skid- 
rayed. Skid-rayed by a cop at last. I 
always knew it would happen, though. 
That last stunt of breaking up the em- 
press’ canal excursion party was what 
got the I. P. after me.” 

He craned his eyes at Colbie. “But 
things have a habit of checking to zero. 
You’re what 3'ou are. I’m what I am, 
and we’re going to die. But Avho had 
the most kick out of it? Did you like 
to put men in prison? I wonder. But 
me ! It was fun to slip the rings off 
the fat fingers of the empress !” 

THERE WAS a shrug in Colbie's 
voice. “Maybe it was. Let’s leave 
philosophy out of it. How did you 
happen to find the hole?” 

“Well, I didn’t look for it. Vulcan’s 
never been considered worth a detailed 



AT THE CENTER OF GRAVITY 



69 



investigation, and so nobody kfiew the 
startling facts about the little planet. 

“I saw the hole on a jump of ten 
miles across the surface, revealed by 
starlight. As much as I remember, 
it was about forty feet across, and on 
the night side, with the day side only 
seventy or so miles away. Anyway, I 
saw it, and I knew you were hopping 
after me somewhere on the night side, 
and I didn’t give a damn any more, 
which, added to plain curiosity, made 
me jump in. The hole,” said Deverel 
whimsically, ‘.‘was deep, and I fell for 
hours. I suppose you knew I was down 
here, when you found the hole, eh?” 

“After I had started falling,” Colbie 
said. “I’d looked everywhere on the 
night side and hadn’t found you. The 
day side was of course too hot. I was 
going back to the two ships. Wher- 
ever you were, you wouldn’t escape the 
planet. Then I fell in, from a long 
jump. I couldn’t avoid it. 

“About seven hours down,” he con- 
tinued, “I began to suspect the truth — 
that Vulcan is as hollow as a bubble, 
probably is one, the result of a huge, 
internal explosion, just before it cooled, 
ages ago. Some other explosion pushed 
a hole through the crust. 

“At first I thought I’d stop when even 
with the inner surface. Second thought 
showed otherwise. If the planet was 
actually hollow. I’d drop to the center, 
at a steadily decreasing speed. The law 
of gravitation says that every particle 
of matter in the universe attracts every 
other particle with a force that is di- 
rectly proportional to the product of 
their masses, and inversely proportional 
to the square of the distance between 
their centers. 

Of course, Vulcan being a sphere, 
there was lateral attraction as well as 
vertical. The gravitational force pulling 
me away from center was less than that 
pulling me toward it, but as I went along 
they tended to become equal to each 
other, until, here at the center of gravity. 



the forces of gravity neiUraiize. Tor 
every pull from one direction there’s 
another of equal force from the opposite 
direction. 

“We fell to Vulcan’s center in a 
straight line, but on Earth, if it were 
hollow, we wouldn’t. Weight manifests 
itself in a line somewhat removed from 
the center of gravity, because of cen- 
trifugal force on the Earth’s surface. 
You’d fall in a spiral path. But Vulcan 
doesn’t rotate.” 

Their two bodies, having tendencies 
to drift to the exact center of Vulcan, 
were touching. Colbie pushed Deverel 
away by raising his knee. 

“You’ve remarked a few times that 
my taking you prisoner was a joke,” 
remarked Colbie. “What makes you 
think so?” 

“Because there’s no way of escape,” 
said Deverel calmly. “Maybe you think 
so, too, and don’t know it. Else you’d 
have put me in handcuffs, in addition to 
taking my projector. 

“Here’s the situation! Vulcan is 
hollow. I’m sure there’s only one out- 
let. We’re at the center. Now how 
are we going to reach the outlet? It’s 
a riddle, and I know yOur first guess.” 

“All right. I’ll make it! How about 
reaction? I’ve got a hundred rounds 
for my projector, and — you’ve got at 
least fifty on your belt.” 

“First guess wrong.” Deverel mock- 
ingly shook his head. “I’ve thought of 
reaction — the only thought, incidentally. 
I was here hours before you were, and 
I was able to pick the thing to pieces. 

“No matter which way you take it, it 
won’t work. Worse than that, it’s sui- 
cide. Consider. Vulcan is eight hun- 
dred and ninety miles in diameter, and 
hollow. Probably the crust is a hundred 
miles in thickness — a thinner one would 
crack up under the attraction of the 
Sun. That would give us three hundred 
and forty-five miles to travel by reaction 
— to the inner surface. Once we got 
there, our simple problem would be to 



70 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



find the hole, which is anywhere on the 
inner surface, quite a considerable area. 
But probably we wouldn’t even get there, 
because we wouldn’t know whether we 
were going toward the day side or the 
night side. Or, we might execute circles. 

“But let’s say we do reach the inner 
surface. How would we stay there? 
By hanging onto jutting rocks? Then 
what if we lost our holds? We’d di'Op 
back to center. Then, too, the inner 
surface is probably a hotbed of chem- 
ical action. Where else would these 
gases come from?” He swept his arm 
through a short arc, producing a swish- 
ing whine by way of illustration. 

“It wouldn’t be fun to grab hold of 
smoking-hot spur of basalt, even though 
your doxite gloves are nearly perfect 
nonconductors. 

“Don’t think I’m afraid of taking a 
chance,” he hastened to add. “But this 
isn’t even a chance. It’s simply quicker 
death. We’d drop back. I’ll bet a 
binary, and there’d be a batch of ex- 
plosive shells waiting for us. They 

wouldn’t travel all the way to the sur- 
face, and the least contact with anything 
solid would set them off. And they’d 
drop back to center.” 

COLBIE listened him out, and sud- 
denly sna])ped off his flashlight. “You 
picked the flaws in the tube,” he said 
heavily. “But — ” 

“If it gets to that point,” Deverel 
agreed with the unvoiced thought, “we’ll 
try reaction. Or else, if we can dis- 
cover some means beside reaction to get 
to the surface, we’ll do that. But ” 

There was infinite doubt in his voice. 

He came out of the darkness, and 
rubbed against his captor. Almost 
peevishly Colbie pushed him away. In- 
stantly he was contrite. The situation 
was too serious for a petty display of 
anger. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little on 
edge. Come on back.” 

“I’m subject to the whims of a uni- 



versal law — gravitation,” Deverel said 
cheerfully. “I’ll be along presently. In 
the meantime, scion of law and order, 
that cop’s mind of yours should be able 
to figure out what we’ll do in the time 
remaining.” 

Colbie did not answer, and Deverel 
went on talking, in his light-hearted 
way. 

“We could eat, and sleep, think a 
while, and try that reaction business. 
Or else we wait until our oxygen tanks 
run low, and then cut a hole in the 
fabric of our suits. This atmosphere is 
most likely lethal.” 

Colbie’s mind agilely grabbed a 
thought from his words. “Wait a min- 
ute!” he snapped. “Deverel — maybe 
I’ve hit it. We’ll sleep!” 

He cut the darkness with his beam, 
throwing it on Deverel’s face. 

“What do you know about Vulcan?” 
he demanded. 

“What do I know about it?” Deve- 
rel cocked his head in curiosity, and then 
said, “Vulcan was first discovered in the 
middle of the nineteenth century by a 
Frenchman who saw a spot moving 
across the face of the Sun. But no- 
body thought it was a planet ; they 
thought it was a Sun spot. Later, every- 
body forgot about it. Then it was dis- 
covered to exist in actuality, when the 
first space flight was made in the twenty- 
third century. 

“It is eight hundred and ninety miles 
in diameter, presents one face to the 
Sun, has an extremely eccentric orbit, 
has a year of three Earth months; its 
orbit cuts the plane of the ecliptic at a 
greater angle than Mercury’s; it has a 
high albedo ” 

Colbie cut him off. “That’s enough. 
I’m interested in the eccentric orbit. 
How far is it from the Sun when the 
planet’s nearest, in perihelion, that is?” 

“Little under five million,” 

“In aphelion?” 

“Thirty-eight million miles.” 



AT THE CENTER OF GRAVITY 



7i 



COLBIE NODDED, and again 
pushed Deverel from him. While the 
danger both faced had placed their per- 
sonal relationships in the background, 
Colbie didn’t want to take a chance. 
At any moment since Deverel had Ijeen, 
taken prisoner, Colbie reflected, the out- 
law had had an opportunity to turn the 
tables. 

“Vulcan’s almost exactly in aphelion 
now. Listen to this : Suppose we were 
to take somnolene, and sleep until peri- 
helion, or, rather, near perihelion. The 

Sun would be ” 

Deverel’s blue eyes fairly snapped, 
and his finely cut features lighted up 
ip an expression of revelation. “I’ve 
got it!’’ he exclaimed. 

“Certainly. But it doesn’t call for 
that much enthusiasm, does it?’’ Colbie 
regarded Deverel curiously. “Are you 
thinking of the same thing I am?’’ he 
demanded. 

Deverel hesitated for an instant. He 
smiled. “I am! You’re thinking of 

the Sun pulling us from ” 

“Right. And it seems reasonable, 
doesn’t it? Near perihelion the attrac- 
tion will be sufficiently powerful to exert 
a kind of tidal drag on us. We’d be 
pulled from center of gravity to the in- 
ner surface, of the day side. 

“That would leave us in the same 
predicaments you mentioned a while ago, 
except — there’d be no danger of falling 
back. And, of course,” he added with 
a touch of unleashed irritation, “it’d be 
like climbing a precipice to reach the 
hole. But we have to take our chances. 
No use hanging here, using up oxygen 
with each idle moment.” 

Deverel looked at him with an enig- 
matic expression, and nodded briefly. 
For a moment Colbie met his eyes with 
a frown of puzzled doubt; then they 
bumped against each other again Col- 
bie said: “You’ve got somnolene?” 
“Got it, but never had occasion to 
use it.” 

“It’s safe. Carter used it in 2490 



when his ship broke down on Uranus. 
By the time he had it repaired, the 
fueling station on Ganymede, one of the 
Moons of Jupiter, was so far away he 
couldn’t make it. He took somnolene, 
slept fifteen years to conjunction with 
Jupiter, and made it back from Gany- 
mede none the worse. But we won’t 
have to stay under more than a month 
— Vulcan makes the rounds in three. 
How does it sound?” 

“Fine. But you needn’t ask my ad- 
vice, since I’m your prisoner, you 
know.” 

Colbie’s eyes narrowed. He could 
hardly miss the undercurrent of mock- 
ery in the outlaw’s manner. But since 
there was nothing tangible he could put 
his finger on, he cast the doubt from his 
mind, at least temporarily. 

“Then it’s us for somnolene. I don’t 
really place much faith in the idea, but 
it’s a chance, and we couldn’t live to 
perihelion on the oxygen we’ve got. I 
wish we could put the stars where they 
ought to be, as the saying goes, but 
that’s life.” 

They drifted together again. Colbie 
smiled a little, and grasping Deverel’s 
shoulders, whirled him around. 

“Very sorry,” he apologized. “But if 
you woke up before I did, you might 
play tricks. There’s a look in your eye, 
my fine fellow. Hands behind.” 

Deverel’s answer to this was to break 
free, with a sudden twist of his body. 
He floated away, Colbie’s beam calmly 
playing on him. The outlaw’s lips were 
twisted, almost stubbornly. 

Colbie smiled into his eyes. “Oh, no 
you don’t. It’s handcuffs for you, De- 
verel, or else this.” He drew his projec- 
tor, and leveled it at the outlaw. 

For a moment their eyes locked. De- 
verel tossed his head. “You win,” he 
said gruffly. 

AFTER A TIME he drifted back, 
and Colbie snapped the cuffs on with a 
click. 



72 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



Colbie turned the outlaw around, 
flashed his beam on the waist of his 
suit. Beside the belt holding projector 
holster, and projectile compartments, 
there was a row of white buttons. 

“Somnolene is third on left,” mut- 
tered Deverel. 

Colbie pressed the third on the left. 
Instantly a thin rod arose, bearing in its 
grappling hook clutches a pellet of 
somnolene. Deverel reached out a 
tongue, and captured the drug. He 
swallowed it. The rod dropped back 
into the spacious interior of the suit, 
folded up inside the mechanism of 
which it was a part with a click. 

“Water,” murmured Deverel. “First 
on right.” 

Colbie elevated a thin metal tube. 
Deverel sucked and sighed. 

“That’ll keep us under a month. 
Right?” 

Jack Colbie grunted. He watched 
the other man, noted the glazing eyes, 
the face set in a sleepy half smile. 

Then he quickly swallowed his own 
pellet. He snapped off his beam, and 
lightlessness in the fullest sense of the 
word descended. He hung motionless. 
Deverel suddenly rubbed against him. 

“Happy dreams.” 

“Good night,” Colbie responded. He 
laughed to himself. There’d be no 
dreams with this sleep, for metabolism 
in the body ceased entirely with the in- 
troduction of somnolene into it. 

His thoughts suddenly skipped into 
haze, and then, for one second, his mind 
worked at a furious rate. He found 
himself saying, “It won't work! It 
won’t work!” 

Then he found himself unable to fol- 
low the thought. He felt a weight on 
his eyes, and the darkness of Vulcan’s 
interior rushed in upon his mind. His 
conscrbvisness dwindled to tiny points 
of thought, ^^ulcan — a bubble — not a 
chance — Kepler 1 He slept. 



HE AWOKE, with the sensation of 
spinning up from an abyss. Little 
thoughts came back, added to them- 
selves and presently chained them- 
selves together to perform that miracle 
called memory. Then he was fully con- 
scious, and conscious of a burst of sound 
that filled the darkness, and then died 
away. 

“Deverel!” He shouted it. “What 
the ” 

“Oh, you’re awake. It’s time.” 

Colbie collected his wits. He drew 
his flashlight. The beam caught Deverel 
in the face. 

“How long’ve you been awake?” he 
demanded. “And what in blue hell was 
that sound?” 

Deverel grinned. “That,” he said, 
“was me. I’ve been awake about two 
hours. I’m heavier than you, and the 
somnolene didn’t last as long.” He ex- 
pelled a long breath, 

“That sound was just one of the de- 
vices I’ve been using to amuse myself. 
First, when I awoke, I pushed against 
you to see how far away I could get. 
It wasn’t far. I always drifted back. 
I became horribly bored, and started 
shouting like a fiend. I was just won- 
dering if the sound wouldn’t be taken 
up by the cup-shaped sides of Vulcan, 
and reflected back a thousand times 
magnified. I haven’t got an echo yet, 
but I’m hoping for one any minute 
now. 

“Then I sang — terrible. You’ve no- 
ticed how flat our voices are, and that’s 
how, only w’orse, my song sounded. On 
Earth there are hundreds of blending 
echoes for a single sound. There’s noth- 
ing here for sound to reflect from. And 
then I gave that last shout you just 
heard.” 

“I’m glad I wasn’t awake for the 
singing,” Colbie remarked dryly. 

He paused, and said slowly, “Bad 
news, IDeverel. Just before I slept, I 
had a thought. The Sun can’t pull us 
from center.” 



AT THE CENTER OF GRAVITY 



73 



Deverel evinced no surprise. “I know 
it,” he said calmly. “I’ve been thinking 
deeper into the subject than I did be- 
fore, and have come to the same con- 
clusion. Do you know why, though?” 

His arms were twisting around be- 
hind his back, trying to ease the stiff- 
ness. 

“Kepler’s Second Law,” answered 
Colbie disconsolately, 'his eyes on Deve- 
rel’s twisting arms. “Turn around,” he 
said suddenly. “I’ll take those damned 
things off — must be uncomfortable. And 
it doesn’t make any difference now.” He 
unlocked Deverel’s wrists, and repeated, 
“Kepler’s Second Law. The radius 
vector of a planet describes equal areas 
in equal times, which is another way of 
saying that the nearer a planet gets to 
its primary, the greater is its angular 
velocity. Which means that centrifugal 
force equals centrepital.” 

Deverel nodded. “So we’d have just 
as much tendency to be thrown toward 
the night side as to be drawn toward 
the day side.” 

THEY lapsed into a silence which 
Deverel broke by absently humming an 
air. Colbie looked at him in surprise. 

Deverel shrugged his shoulders. “If 
we escape, I go to prison. The outlook 
is the same for me, whether we escape 
or don’t. Hm-m-m. We should’ve 
heard those echoes by now, if they’re 
coming at all.” 

Colbie laughed. He wished he could 
share Deverel’s view, but he decided 
he wasn’t that kind. And then he sud- 
denly wondered if Deverel ’s air of un- 
concernedness was based on something 
he knew that Colbie didn’t know. Was 
there actually a means of escape? 

His train of thought was broken when 
Deverel bumped against him again. He 
shoved the outlaw away, and then he 
felt himself spinning, head over heels. 
Suddenly he swept through the short 
distance separating him from Deverel, 
and contacted with a thud. He started 



spinning again, once, twice, and finally 
grabbed at Deverel’s legs. 

“I, too, am gyrating,” Deverel mur- 
mured, laughter in his subdued tones. 
He took a quick half spin, and locked 
his long legs about Colbie’s waist. 

Colbie put his flashlight in a pocket. 
“What is it?” he inquired. 

“Listen,” Deverel replied. 

Colbie listened, and heard a murmur- 
ing, sighing sound. The murmuring 
rushed into a whine. Colbie threw his 
arms around the outlaw. They spun 
madly, became motionless, and then felt 
themselves moving at a quickly accel- 
erating speed. Colbie heard a whining, 
keening sound that gradually grew 
louder, snapped off, and became a steady, 
rushing whir. 

Then, with an instantaneity that was 
startling they spun again, gyrating in 
the opposite direction with such pin- 
wheel rapidity that they lost their holds 
on each other. 

After a moment they crashed to- 
gether, the metallic parts of their suits 
clinking dully. Deverel was faughing as 
he locked his arms about Colbie. Colbie 
in turn hung on tightly. He had no 
time to think matters out, save that he 
knew they were in the grip of a swiftly 
moving current of gases. They con- 
tinued to spin, even as they swept for- 
ward at constantly increasing speed. 

Minutes of furious, driving speed 
passed. Colbie’s mind became fogged, 
for the swift rotation of his bodjr sent 
the blood to his head. Dimly, as from 
a far distance, he could hear a booming, 
thrphing, at times screaming, sound. 
He supposed, as in a dream, that num- 
berless gas currents in conflict were 
causing the bedlam. The cause of the 
wind he could only dimly suspect. 

HOW LONG their motion in this di- 
rection continued, Colbie did not know. 
But he calculated it to be some thirty or 
forty minutes. At the speed they had 
been going, fully half the distance be- 



74 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



tween center and inner surface must 
have been consumed. After that time 
they began decelerating very rapidly. 
Simultaneously there was a rise in tem- 
perature. 

Groggily, Colbie hung on to Deverel. 
To have done otherwise would have 
subjected them to the bombardment of 
each other’s bodies. Perspiration began 
leaking through his skin, and soaked his 
inner clothing. He loosed an arm, and 
peaked a refrigeration unit up a notch, 
and gratefully felt the air in his suit 
cool off. Somewhat irrelevantly he 
wondered about Deverel’s echoes, and 
decided that if they really had been 
on the way back to center, they would 
have been lost by now in shifting vol- 
umes of gases. 

Gradually they became motionless, 
both in lateral motion and in rotatory. 
Somewhere off in the darkness whining, 
shrieking noises, the product of catapult- 
ing winds, still reigned. But here they 
were for a blessed moment becalmed, 
swaying back and forth in an indecisive, 
warm current. 

Colbie collected himself, took a deep 
breath. He released himself from De- 
verel, and drew his flash. For just a 
moment he saw the tense, anxious ex- 
pression on the face of the outlaw, and 
then it was gone. Deverel was grinning. 

“Some wind,” he murmured. 

“Yes, wind. But why? What caused 
it?” 

Deverel hesitated, and then said, 
“Well, Colbie, consider. Vulcan’s near 
the Sun, and the Sun’s heat worked 
through the day-side crust. The high 
albedo of the planet’s been fighting the 
heat, but the Sun got so close the heat 
sank through. The gases on the hot 
surface became heated, and came in 
conflict with cooler gases above. Winds 
would result.” 

He assumed an expression of alert- 
ness; then his eyes rested, for a mock- 
ing moment, on Colbie’s. Suddenly he 
threw his arms around Colbie. 



“Hang on! Listen!” 

Colbie listened. He heard a moaning, 
dipping cadence that seemed as if it 
were infinitely distant. It grew in vol- 
ume. Abruptly it took on a thousand 
discordant, screaming, weirdly chilling 
sounds. 

Colbie waited apprehensively. Then, 
as if some imponderable force had 
hurled itself against them, they felt 
themselves flung forward, in a straight 
angle. There was an abrupt sense of 
acceleration. Whether this was the same 
direction they had first pursued, or 
whether it was perpendicular or at an 
angle to it, Colbie did not know. Again 
he and Deverel whirled. Again his men- 
tal powers were fogged by the onrush 
of blood to the head. 

THF. WIND that bore them shrieked 
and moaned, and rose to a crescendo 
roar that culminated in a clap of thun- 
der. Abruptly they were tossed side- 
wise into the maw of a cooler current, 
and Colbie supposed they were falling 
toward the day side. The sudden change 
of direction did little to help him regain 
his full faculties. 

The current which held them con- 
tinued its straight course. It bellowed, 
and crooned, and quivered along false 
minors that were grotesquely plaintive. 
Then, point blank, it met a head wind. 
It shuddered, broke up into countless 
tiny currents that spewed off in all di- 
rections. The oncoming wind veered 
off, and the two men found themselves 
decelerating, hovering in a gentle breeze 
that cooled them. 

Colbie disentangled himself from the 
outlaw. 

“We can’t be far from the day side,” 
he remarked, shining his beam on De- 
verel again. 

“We’ve traveled a good distance,” 
Deverel admitted. “And,” he added, 
“we’re going to travel more. Here 
comes another wind.” 

Colbie heard it, an awful, hurrying 



AT THE CENTER OF GRAVITY 



75 



sound. He barely had time to attach 
himself to Deverel before the wind was 
on them. 

It struck them with the force of a 
tornado. It plowed into them, took them 
from the grip of the disinterested cur- 
rent in which they swayed, and gave 
them a tremendous initial velocity. The 
shock was too much. They grunted, 
and lost consciousness. 

Colbie regained his senses to find 
that he still held on to Deverel. They 
were eddying steadily but slowly. He 
heard a steady drone, tireless, relent- 
less, and indicative of great speed. 
Though other sounds could be heard, 
they were subordinated. There was a 
tiny, far-away scream; a hissing, in- 
sidious whisper; a spasmodic, tearing, 
angry roar, and all ^seemed fighting for 
admittance. And because they could 
not enter, Colbie felt a sensation of se- 
curity, as if he were in a sanctuary pro- 
vided by a swift, kindly current. 

He relaxed in relief, though danger 
had certainly not passed them by. Be- 
low somewhere, perhaps only a few 
miles,' was the jagged inner surface of 
the planet. 

He felt Deverel move in his arms. 
Up to this time the outlaw had been un- 
conscious. 

Long moments passed. The outlaw 
chuckled dervishly in his ear. 

“What’s amusing?” Colbie shouted 
above the drone. 

“What’s amusing?” Deverel reiterated. 
He laughed again, and stilled himself 
to say, “Colbie, I’ll tell you. But you 
won’t like the joke. I’ve just been think- 
ing how I’ll hate the prison bars, and 
the workshops on Mercury. I am a 
desperate criminal who needs freedom. 



WITH a sudden jerk he freed him- 
self. Then he placed his great space 
boots against Colbie and pushed — hard. 

“So.” he concluded, “au revoir!” His 
voice dwindled away into the darkness. 



and was swept away at the last by the 
drone. 

Though the reason for Deverel’s sud- 
den exodus was not apparent, Colbie’s 
reaction was sudden. With one hand 
he sent a beam of light stabbing into 
the darkness. With the other, he 
grabbed for his projector, and found 
it — gone. 

Colbie cursed, and continued to send 
the beam forth. For one instant he 
thought he saw Deverel, and with flail- 
ing arms he tried to make his way in 
that direction. He contacted nothing of 
a solid nature, but still he strove. 

At last, swearing steadily, venom- 
ously, but in real puzzlement, he relaxed. 
Then he listened. Nothing but the mo- 
notonous drone, and the evanescent, 
pleading sounds outside, met his ears. 
Deverel was gone, but where had he in- 
tended going? 

He abandoned action, and put his 
mind to work. He was spinning again, 
but slowly. 

Somehow Deverel had known a 
means of escape from Vulcan’s interior. 
Ever since Colbie had mentioned the 
Sun, he had known it. Colbie knew that 
now. And since then his actions had 
been suspicious. He had been more 
reluctant than was necessary when Col- 
bie locked his wrists together. He had 
been restraintive in discussing the cur- 
rents raging about them. Of course, the 
convection currents was the whole 
thing. 

Colbie cursed at his own idiotic lack 
of understanding, for now he knew. 

The winds! Sun heat had warmed 
up the day-side atmosphere ; cooler 
winds had been pushed and drawn from 
the central portion of the planet as the 
day-side winds rushed up along the sides 
of the planet. He and Deverel had 
been drawn Sunward by falling cur- 
rents. Erratic currents had grasped at 
them, some warm, some cooler. 

But the main thing was that the 
gases, in warming, would also expand. 



76 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



Vulcan was filled to capacity with gases 
produced within itself. The expanding 
volumes of gas would have to escape. 
The only avenue of escape was the hole. 

Deverel had figured it out, step by 
step. He knew they would fall toward 
the day side in the arms of the descend- 
ing currents. He had kept his secret 
merely to keep Colbie off guard. It had 
worked splendidly. Colbie had had both 
projectors. Deverel had had ample op- 
portunity to confiscate both. Colbie 
could adequately grasp his motive there. 

“Damned good,” Colbie muttered an- 
grily, more in resentment against his 
own stupidity than against Deverel. 
“First, he’ll use reaction to shove him- 
self into the current of escaping gases. 
That’ll leave me out in the cold, unless 
I’m picked up by the current anyway. 
Second, if I do escape, I won’t be able 
to push myself toward the surface of 
Vulcan when I get out. That’ll give 
him plenty of time to effect a good es- 
cape, and throw me off his trail. Smart.” 

He waited patiently. He craned his 
ears for sound of a shot, but he didn’t 
hear it. Possibly Deverel had not 
thought reaction necessary ; possibly the 
bedlam of noise swallowed the sound. 
Colbie didn’t know. 

THE steady drone went on endlessly. 
Then, when Colbie was beginning to fear 
that he was merely traveling in a huge 
circle, the drone changed from its mon- 
otone to a struggling, beating roar, like 
that of surf breaking on rocks. It 
would die away in a furious churning, 
surge up again into a poisonous, scream- 
ing fury, and then recede again to the 
sound of rushing waters. 

Then its velocity broke, slackened, 
and its mighty, unchallenged superiority 
was gone, as currents from a dozen an- 
gles smote it. A maelstrom of conflict- 
ing winds tore at Colbie. He was 
caught up in a devil whirl, flung vio- 
lently about, like a puppet attached to 
innumerable contrarily pulled strings. 



Then another purposeful wind stream 
caught him, transferred to him a sensa- 
tion of security, and moved him along 
at acceleration. The temperature arose 
swiftly, and Colbie felt a leap of joy. 
Ht was in the grip of the escaping cur- 
rent ! 

A drop of perspiration grew on his 
nose. He blew it off with a breath ex- 
pelled upward. He waited, bracing him- 
self for the next shock. It came a 
soul-wrenching jerk, a burst of speed 
that eclipsed all others. At the same 
time the screaming and ranting of the 
winds opposing each other rose to un- 
precedented heights, and almost de- 
stroyed coherent reasoning in an awful 
cacophonic blast. 

Then it was gone, and all that could 
be heard was a rising, keening note that 
eventually passed beyond the limit of 
audition. Another single sound was 
born, and rose to nonexistence. And 
Colbie heard a gurgling, choking, belch- 
ing, sucking polyphony like the death 
rattle of a giant. He began spinning, 
slowly, evenly. He knew now that he 
was on the way through the crust of 
Vulcan. 

Apprehensively he waited, hoping he 
would not be brushed against the sides 
of the hole. But the current was twist- 
ing, the region of low pressure at cen- 
ter. The greater pressure on the out- 
side of the column, he reflected, would 
keep him at the center. A tornado, or 
twister, did the same thing when it 
sucked objects up. 

A second later, he burst into the cold 
of Vulcan’s night. The stars stared 
down frigidly, as he was spewed forth. 

EAGERLY, he looked about. But 
Deverel was not to be seen, either above 
or below. He arose swiftly, in the arms 
of the ascending current. He scanned 
the billowing, uniformly white surface 
of the planet from one horizon to the 
other, but he saw no sign of Deverel. 



AT THE CENTER OF GRAVITY 



77 



Down below, not more than five or six 
miles from the outlet, were the two 
ships, black cruisers anchored from 
chance, external forces by metal bits 
that ate deep into the surface. 

Deverel was still inside the planet, 
undoubtedly. Probably he had tried re- 
action, but the force had sent him the 
wrong way. It was hardly possible, 
Colbie reflected, that Deverel would not 
be thrown out, considering his own ease 
of escape. 

He went up and up. He suddenly 
saw the Sun, large as Jupiter from 
Ganymede. Its boiling rays brought 
beads of perspiration. He kept his 
refrigeration unit working at full power. 

Vulcan receded, its horizons drawing 
in toward each other. Colbie kept his 
eyes on the hole. And then — Deverel 
was erupted ! 

He came up, tumljling head over 
heels. He arose at tremendous velocity, 
a thousand and more feet below Colbie. 
Colbie watched, saw him draw a pro- 
jector, and fire it, straight up. Colbie 
winced as the projectile whizzed past 
his ear at two miles per second. 

Deverel, however, was not attempting 
to annihilate Colbie. His purpose had 



been to check his own velocity. He suc- 
ceeded. He came to a halt. For a mo- 
ment he was still ; then he fired again. 
The reactionary force sent him spin- 
ning awkwardly from the up-blast, and 
down toward the white, wavy surface 
of Vulcan. 

Colbie was still rising when Deverel 
landed. In a single leap the outlaw 
reached his ship. Then he stood in 
front of it, and waved his arms, both 
of them. Colbie half-heartedly waved 
back. 

Deverel tumed back to the ship, 
worked on the door for a moment, 
opened, and stepped into the air lock. 
The door shut after him. , 

A few moments elapsed, and then the 
cruiser rose. With a hack firing of 
rockets, it swiftly disappeared into 
black, star-speckled space. Colbie kept 
it in sight as long as he could. 

He smiled in chagrin. Skid-rayed! 
He felt like a child who has missed 
lessons in school. But he found that he 
didn’t really care. Deverel would es- 
cape, yes, but not for long. 

Hours later, he started drifting back. 
Bubble it was, but Vulcan had enough 
pull to save him from the Sun. 




GLAGULA 

He came from somewhere in space 
— but space charts, too, are relative! 

by Warner Van Lome 



F ive years and more have 
slipped away since that fateful 
expedition into the arctic wastes 
in 1931. Five years in w’hich Jim 
VVeatherall’s hair has grayed at the tem- 
ples; years during which he has re- 
fused to change his address, although 
business blocks have hemmed his house 
until it stands alone among towering 
structures of stone. 

Perhaps even I would not understand 
had he not felt the desperate need to 
get away st)metimes. But he has felt 
that need — and some one had to remain 

in his house, some one who knew 

At first he held me to my promise 
of silence rigidly. But as the weeks be- 
came months he weakened. 

“If you must write it,” he said, “you 
may — after five years. But do it as a 
story, as fiction, or you will be laughed 
at as a lunatic.” 

THE white blanket spread like a 
boundless, glistening sea in every direc- 
tion — clean snow, unbroken by the fee- 
ble works of men. Majestic Alaskan 
mountains, towering only a few miles 
away, made Jim feel small, insignificant. 

One spot in all that vast expanse was 
marked by dirt thrown from a jagged 
hole that cut several feet down into the 
ftuzen earth. Jim’s eyes clouded slightly 
as they touched it; it represented dis- 
appointment. 

For weeks, six men had toiled un- 
ceasingly, hopefully, tracing the slight 
showing of gold. Tliey had dreamed of 



fortune; but the dream faded. Now 
they would dig and test at other spots 
short distances apart. Somewhere in 
the vicinity of their diggings, the earth 
held a heavy lode of virgin gold. 

Jim Weatherall treasured a map, 
sketched by old “Sourdough” Graves, 
who had staggered back to civilization 
half frozen, with a fortune, in his jeans. 
Storms had buried all signs of the work- 
ings before Graves had returned with 
new supplies, and the secret still waited 
rediscovery. But Jim, advonture-bent, 
gathered five friends who were certain 
they could succeed, where the close- 
mouthed old prospector had completely 
failed. 

He, Bill Heally, Harold Pratt, John 
Forbes, and Malcolm Green, invested 
all they had on the prospect ; leaving 
Tom Hoag, a wealthy young doctor, 
just finished with his interneship, only 
half the expenses of the expedition to 
meet ! Tom wanted a fling at travel 
and adventure before settling down to a 
practice. And because he had been 
Jim’s roommate in college, because they 
thought and talked alik& — and could 
agree !— he welcomed the venture. 

Now, for six weeks they had been 
digging. But the map showed a gen- 
eral location — not a spot — and the cabin 
they occupied only placed their work 
within an encircling half mile ! 

The mapped area was at the very edge 
of the belt of thaw which reached its 
fingers into the North country. The 
snow never quite disappeared from the 




It was all the six men 
could do to carry the 
great carcass up the 
bank of snow. 



ground. The earth itself never thawed. 
It was a country of bad storms, with 
only a few months of the year when 
men could exist in any semblance of 
comfort. 

Before noon the diggers were near- 
ing the frozen earth surface. The snow 
thrown from the hole had been piled as 
a windbreak to prevent drifting into the 
diggings with the first storm. It 
seemed useless to erect a shelter before 
they found the lode. 

Jim had left for the snow-banked 
cabin to prepare a lunch when Tom 
Hoag whistled suddenly and leaned for- 
ward. His companions gazed, spell- 
bound, while he slowly and carefully 
uncovered the object his shovel had 
touched. 



A few minutes later Jim called to 
them from the doorway, but there was 
no answering hail, so he donned his 
snowshoes and moved slowly across the 
field. His eyes were squinted against 
the bright light when he reached the 
hole and peered down. Then he, too, 
stood speechless. His five companions 
were lifting the frozen body of a man 
out of the hole. 

And what a man ! Huge ! .With 
skin like the surface of an alabaster 
vase ! A body perfectly symmetrical, 
with features that were strong, intelli- 
gent — but somehow alien. The body 
appeared to be in perfect preservation, 
as if the cold had penetrated instantly 
and had frozen a stirprised expression 
on the features. 



80 ' 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



JIM RECOVERED from a little of 
the shock, and hurried to give them a 
hand. It was all the six men could do 
to carry the great carcass up the bank 
of snow. The weight seemed to be far 
greater than it should be, even allow- 
ing for the gigantic proportions. Sweat 
poured from their bodies, though the 
thermometer was hovering just above 
zero. 

As his eyes became accustomed to the 
light, Jim noticed that the man was 
dressed in .most peculiar garments. 
During frequent pauses he examined the 
clothing carefully. Leather sandals, with 
lacings crisscrossed nearly to the knees, 
were all that protected the legs. A har- 
ness arrangement of leather which was 
soft, pliable and seemingly impervious 
to the cold which had stiffened its 
wearer. A light garment, like a silken 
rohe, was thrown carelessly across the 
shoulders, of a texture which did not 
seem woven — but rather seemed as if 
it were spun as a spider spins a thread, 
continuously in its entire area. 

There were beautifully wrought metal 
buckles, with an\ opalescent sheen, sug- 
gesting the art of craftsmen more skilled 
than we in the Machine Age have 
known. And the metal in the fittings 
was light; lighter than aluminum, yet 
hard and tough. Bill Heally, testing, 
found it would cut glass. It was harder 
than a diamond point! 

Very carefully, the body was laid in 
the snow outside the cabin. It was a 
find which left Tom’s’ eyes glowing. It 
meant more to him than gold. Jim 
helped him stretch a tape measure from 
the man’s head to his feet. Seven feet 
eight inches! 

“What do you think, Tom?” It was 
Jim who broke the silence. “I thought 
I knew something about history, but 
he doesn’t fit — and he doesn’t look like 
any of the natives I’ve seen.” 

Tom shook his head dazedly. 

“I don’t know, Jim. I don’t know. 
He is too heavy for his size — too heavy, 



that is, for a normal Earthling. I would 
guess that he weighs five hundred 
pounds, possibly even more. I have 
never seen a body so perfectly pre- 
served, as if the cold hit him so quick 
and hard that it caught him in mid- 
motion, freezing every cell in his body 
— like catalepsy. 

“He might have lain here for cen- 
turies unnoticed. And then again — he 
may have been here only a part of this 
winter. I — did you notice the peculiar 
quality of his skin ? And a certain alien 
effect in his features ?” 

“Do you mean to say this — thing 
comes from another world?” 

Tom shook his head slowly. 

“No,” he answered, “I don’t mean to 
say anything, except that I want you 
fellows to drop me out of the digging 
business for a time. I want to study 
this giant of ours. 

“It may mean a great deal to the 
world, historically or medically. I don’t 
know. But I fear that its return to a 
warm climate might end bur chance to 
study it. Here, if we build a shelter 
to protect it from the Sun’s rays, it will 
keep forever.” 

“O. K.. Tom, if that’s the way you 
want to play, but as far as I’m con- 
cerned, you’ll have to play all by your- 
self. I’m still a prospector ! How about 
you fellows?” Bill Heally asked. 

Harold Pratt, Malcolm, and John, 
nodded and turned slowly away. Jim 
alone seemed to hesitate, but he caught 
a slight wink from Tom, and a jerk of 
the head. So he, too, turned and went 
back to the cabin. 

LONG AFTER his tired compan- 
ions had gone to bed, Jim Weatherall 
sat with his head in his hands, think- 
ing. Tom had entered the cabin sev- 
eral times to warm himself by the fire, 
but had returned immediately to his 
minute study of the frozen stranger. 
He was making copious notes. Jim 
glanced at them once. The condition of 



GLAGULA 



81 



the skin, the veins, the muscular posi- 
tions, the number of sweat glands. 

This was all natural. But Tom’s ex- 
citement had increased as the hours 
passed ; and it should have lessened ! 
Something very unusual must cause this 
increasingly eager study, and Jim, feel- 
ing the tension in his friend, waited pa- 
tiently. 

At two o’clock it happened. Tom had 
warmed himself before the fire, never 
losing his expression of strained expec- 
tancy. And as he left he beckoned for 
Jim to follow. 

In a hoarse whisper then, he broke 
tbe news with startling abruptness. 

“Jim, I think he’s alive.” Tom 
watched his friend’s face hopefully, fear- 
fully, but Jim didn’t answer, and he 
went on, “I’ve given him every test that 
my limited medical equipment allows. 
I’ve even extracted a bit of bis frozen 
blood. It’s slightly different from ours, 
Jim, but I believe I have adrena- 

line — I have, I think, everything I need. 
If we take him back to civilization, he’s 
through. I — ^you’ve always understood, 
Jim — the other boys couldn’t. Help me 
through, will you? I want to try to 
bring him back to life ! 

“It will be the greatest step forward 
in the history of medical science if I 
succeed, and I feel I will. Life might 
not come back normal. If it doesn’t ii 
will be tragedy. But if it does, this 
stranger will learn to talk to us, and I 
think we would be surprised by what 
he could tell. 

“Will you help me, Jim?” 

Jim’s voice was hoarse as he an- 
swered. “And if you fail ?” 

“If I fail?” Tom’s words seemed 
pointed at a distant star. “If I fail, the 
cold will do its work again, and we 
will return him to civilization.” 

Jim nodded solemnly and they shook 
hands under the arctic sky, like two men 
who were about to separate forever. 
There was a fever glowing in Tom’s 
eyes, and Jim caught some of its in- 



fectious urge as he asked: “Have 

you thought how we could keep them” — 
his head inclined backward toward the 
cabin — “from butting in?” 

Tom nodded quickly. “Yes. I’ve 
thought it out. Let’s cover our friend 
against marauders and get some sleep. 
There’s plenty to do to-morrow.” 

II. 

IT WAS expected that Tom would 
spend his time studying the frozen 
stranger. So he was able to putter 
about the camp without raising the 
slightest further curiosity. The main 
party returned to the new diggings, ami 
weren’t even mildly concerned when 
Jim lent a hand in erecting a shelter to 
house the giant’s body. 

The active diggers were not even 
aware that Tom had appropriated the 
spare gasoline stove and the extra tank 
for melting snow. They did not even 
bother to look into the makeshift labora- 
tory. Had they done so, they might 
have been surprised to find that weather 
stripping made the shack wind-tight, 
and that the temperature was kept 
above the freezing point — and gradu- 
ally increased as the hours stretched 
into days. 

It was on the fourth night, after the 
aching bodies of four men had relaxed 
in sleep, that Tom hurried Jim Weath- 
erall out to the shelter with him. 

“We’ve got to hurry,” he explained. 
“The body is close to the point of limp- 
ness. Before morning we should know 
the answer. No sleep to-night.” 

The tense expectancy which had 
driven Tom day after day with little or 
no sleep caught Jim now. His friend’s 
words seemed to come from some vague 
distance, and he had to force himself 
to listen. 

“The big tank of water is ready, and 
I believe it will draw the rest of the 
frost in an hour. We must raise its 
temperature slowly, almost to blood 



82 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



heat, before I try restoratives. It may 
take all night.” 

Hour after hour slipped away. Tom’s 
cheeks were colored by a hectic fever 
flush as his mental faculties concen- 
trated on watching every detail of 
change. Time after time his arm dipped 
into the tepid water, touching the iron- 
hard flesh, testing, changing. Both men 
grew tense. Anxiety was written on 
brows, which were concentrated on a 
seemingly impossible purpose. 

But slowly the stiffness was leaving 
the body. Slowly it was returning to a 
natural state of limpness. Slowly the 
tepid water became lukewarm. Slowly 
the thermometer in the shelter crept up- 
ward. Time seemed to creep slower and 
slower as the crisis neared. 

Tom Hoag, alone, moved fast, testing 
every reflex and every slightest hint of 
change in the cumbersome body ; with- 
drawing a drop of blood as limpness 
returned to the giant. Again and again 
he tested the blood. It was not con- 
gealing ! 

After the eleventh blood test he 
turned to Jim. His voice was a hoarse 
whisper, for his throat was dry. 

‘‘The frost is gone,” he said, and to- 
gether the two struggled until they had 
lifted the body from the tank and laid 
it on warm blankets beside the tank. 

Touching the limp flesh for the first 
time, Jim felt a queer, tingling fear per- 
meate his being. But Tom Hoag re- 
acted like a machine. He put Jim to 
work at artificial respiration, while he 
massaged the body briskly with a towel. 
Then he seized a hypodermic needle 
which lay waiting, and injected a serum 
into the heart. 

Tom devoted three minutes more to 
brisk massage, then gave a second in- 
jection, then a third. Jim was tiring, 
and Tom replaced him astride the bar- 
rellike chest, never losing a stroke in 
the artificial breathing. Time was for- 
gotten. But it seemed like hours to 
their aching muscles. Jim again re- 



placed Tom. The giant’s cheeks were 
beginning to show a touch of color. 

Tom took Jim’s place again. They 
had forgotten everything except that 
the color of fife was coming into the 
face of the stranger. Time passed, and 
tired muscles shrieked messages even 
into their excited brains! They forgot 
how often they changed places. Jim 
was working now, forward and down, 
up and back, motions timed to normal 
breathing. Tom took a long chance and 
injected another shot of adrenaline. 

When Tom once more took up the 
work, Jim gasped as he glimpsed the 
gray of early dawn through the crack 
under the door. It brought a new fear 
that they be disturbed on the verge of 
success. He heard Tom exclaim, and 
saw him stop moving. Jim’s tired eyes 
focused slowly on the huge body, then 
for a second time sleep was washed from 
his system in an instant. The strange 
giant was breathing naturally, unas- 
sisted! 

He sank to the floor, his aching mus- 
cles quivering from the strain; but his 
brain raced. They had succeeded ! The 
giant was coming back to life ! 

Tom emptied a hypodermic into the 
pulsing arteries, and wrapped the living 
body tight in the blankets. He turned 
up the stove and the heat hovered 
around eighty in the tiny room. The 
stranger was sleeping. He moved 
slightly in his sleep! 

Tom Hoag’s face glowed with a mix- 
ture of exultation and accomplished de- 
sire. Jim’s reflected incredulity; an in- 
ability to believe his senses as he kept 
glancing toward the sleeping stranger. 

Tom’s voice broke in on his thoughts. 
“Jim, can you keep our prospectors 
from coming over here before noon? 
Try? Our new friend will sleep for a 
while; I’ve seen to that. You’d better 
not return until they’ve gone to work. 
He may be awake by then, and I may 
need you.” 

The words sobered Jim, and he nod- 



GLAGULA 



83 




The two men from Earth remained quiet, as pictures of this 
strange giant’s civilization flashed through their minds. 





84 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



ded slowly. The great fear still re- 
mained that the man’s brain might not 
function properly. Or if it did, he 
might be a savage, and with the strength 
of that gigantic body, Tom might well 
need a friend when he awoke. 

THREE HOURS LATER Jim 
opened the door to the shelter, fearful 
of what he might find inside. There 
had not been a sound or a word from 
Tom since he had closed the door be- 
hind him and returned to the cabin. 

But now, as his eyes adjusted them- 
selves to the half light, he found two 
men looking at him. One he knew. 
The other? His knees felt suddenly 
weak and he sank down beside the 
door. 

For several minutes Jim Weatherall's 
fascinated eyes were glued to those of 
the giant. He noted that although the 
temperature made perspiration boil out 
on his body, the stranger seemed to 
hover close to the stove, as if he were 
cold. 

“I’m glad everything’s all right,” Jim 
said hoarsely, and to his amazement it 
was the giant who answered. In some 
unknown tongue, to be sure, but unmis- 
takably in greeting. 

Tom smiled. 

“I’ve been talking to him for an hour, 
Jim. His brain is O. K. And he is 
enough of a master of thought trans- 
ference so he can not only read our 
thoughts, but can transmit his own 
clearly to us. He is, as I suspected, a 
contemporary. At least, we think so. 
He hails from another planet, but since 
names do not match up very well, I am 
unable to place it exactly as yet. You 
see, he studied the galaxies from a dif- 
ferent viewpoint from ours, and it might 
take days or weeks to orient the two 
viewjx)ints and discover whether he 
means one of our familiar neighbors, or 
whether he hails from some unknown 
world in the outer galaxies. 



“However that may be, his world is 
smaller than ours, and because of its 
lesser gravity its people have developed 
a greater weight and size. His world 
is close to some sun, for it maintains a 
constant heat much greater than we 
have in this room.- As nearly as I can 
understand it, he never knew the mean- 
ing of cold until it gripped and froze 
him. He had not gone far from his 
space ship before it happened ” 

“Space ship!” Jim exploded. “Space 

ship? You mean to say ” He 

glanced toward the giant, who was smil- 
ing and nodding his head affirmatively. 

The man understood everything they 
had been saying I Shivers of fear began 
to crawl in Jim’s spine. The giant was 
looking directly into his eyes, and Jim 
could jeel his thoughts, but the message 
he felt was reassuring, and his fears re- 
laxed. 

Tom’s words seemed almost to break 
in on a conversation when he said : 

“Yes, Jim, he came in a space ship 
which cannot be far from here. He 
may have landed centuries ago. We 
cannot know until he can check the gal- 
axies for time position by means of his 
instruments. But it seems more reason- 
able to believe that he is a contemporary 
and that he may have landed no longer 
ago than early in this present winter 
season.” 

The giant’s thought images had with- 
drawn as Tom spoke. Jim had to jerk 
his mind back to the words. They 
seemed to grate after the wordless un- 
derstanding thrown on his mind by the 
giant. 

“What do you call him, Tom?” Jim 
was curious. 

To his surprise, the giant answered; 
“Glagula!” The man had understood 
the thought behind Jim’s words. He 
repeated, “Glagula,” as he pointed to 
himself, then “Tom,” pointing, and 
finally “Jim” as his finger stabbed for- 
ward. 



GLAGULA 



85 



FOR SEVERAL MINUTES Jim 
looked into his eyes, suddenly realizing 
— they were getting acquainted, as if 
talking with words. After a moment it 
seemed a natural way to converse. 
There was nothing strange, except that 
he had never done it before. A country 
of heat slowly formed in his mind, not 
too hot to live in, but comparable to the 
heat of the Sahara. There were beauti- 
ful buildings, with green lawns around 
them. The people seemed happy and 
not out of proportion — they Nvere all the 
size of the giant. His people; the race 
he came from, with the same character- 
istics. 

Huge ships sailed majestically over- 
head. They did not appear to be made 
of metal; they looked more like frosted 
glass. They were all lighter than air 
machines, resembling a tear drop in 
shape, beautiful beyond description. 
There were moving tracks in the streets 
for transportation. Everything repre- 
sented a higher civilization than that on 
earth. The architecture was strange, 
with a foreign beauty. 

Every mechanism, as well as the 
buildings, were placed in what would be 
considered a rural atmosphere on 
Earth. Green growth covered as much 
space as the structures, giving a very 
pleasing effect to everything. It 
showed planning well ahead of develop- 
ment; an understanding of a future far 
beyond the point of Earthtime. 

Suddenly his mind was snapped back 
to see the giant smiling at him. Tom 
was smiling, too. He knew what had 
been passing between the two minds. 
Then Jim smiled as well, and held out 
his hand to the stranger from another 
world. They had become friends in the 
few minutes of perfect understanding. 

Three men, two from Earth and one 
from untold distance, sat for a long time 
with pictures of the world and its civili- 
zation pictured in Tom and Jim’s minds 
while the giant returned the pictures of 
his own land. There were many things 



beyond comprehension in the strange 
country, and Glagula tried to explain by 
showing their action. But the cars re- 
mained a mystery. There was no 
source of electric energy, no power 
plants of any kind, yet they traveled 
smoothly at terrific speeds. 

The greatest wonder to the giant was 
the cold and snow. He could not coin- 
prehend heat, and try as they would, 
they could not explain it to his satis- 
faction. He. had never known any rela- 
tive heat values. On his native planet 
they did not exist; his people used a 
different means of manufacture. The 
j)ower came from some source the 
Earthmen could not understand. 

After struggling to make tlieir 
thoughts understood for several minutes, 
Jim got so excited he burst into speech. 

“Darn it all; it’s as -’’ Then he 

stopped as they all burst into laughter. 
All restraint between them was gone. 

At a slight sound Jim glanced up. 
Malcolm Green stood in the doorway ! 

For a moment he stood frozen, his 
eyes trying to pop out of his head. 
Then, with a groan, he crumpled in a 
faint ! The sight of a corpse come back 
to life had been too much. 

Jim carried him outside and rubbed 
snow in his face until his eyes opened, 
and he looked wildly around. Jump- 
ing to his feet, stark fear in his face, he 
glanced toward the small Iniilding, then 
ran like a wild man toward the cabin. 

HI. 

LUNCH TIME had come and the 
prospectors had returned. Finding Jim 
absent, Malcolm went searching for him. 
Jim realized the party had to be told, 
and from the sound of excited voices 
Malcolm was telling plenty. But what 
could he say? Eyes peered around the 
corner of the building, but none came 
to investigate. 

Jim decided to let them talk for a few 
minutes and went back inside. Tom 



86 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



and the giant, too, would want to eat. 
He could tell his story while he got 
lunch. 

The men were still talking in awed 
tones mixed with fear when Jim en- 
tered the cabin. Malcolm still looked 
as if he had seen a ghost. There were 
strings of questions waiting. 

“Don’t look as if you’d seen a ghost, 
Malcolm. He is a human being. Tom 
brought him back to life. We knew you 
wouldn’t have put up with the experi- 
ment if you had known, so we kept it 
secret. You happened to stumble in 
there before we told you. 

“The facts will astound you. He’s 
not of this world, but from another 
planet. You will want to get acquainted 

with him ’’ Suddenly Jim stopped. 

They were looking at him as if he him- 
self was a freak from another world. 
They could not believe him! 

For a moment he didn’t comprehend. 
Then the truth struck him. They 
thought he was trying to joke at the 
expense of their common sense. When 
he knew they didn’t believe, he stopped. 

“All right, then, come over and see 
for yourselves. He won’t mind, and 
then you will know.’’ 

He started toward the shelter, but 
they were slow to follow. Malcolm 
wouldn’t budge, but the others came 
slowly out of the door, looking as if 
they expected to go through a terrible 
ordeal instead of displaying any interest 
in what they might find. 

When they reached the doorway they 
stopped. A green pallor slowly crept 
up Bill Heally’s neck. The giant was 
facing the other way, and they watched 
for a moment before he turned to them. 
This was too much, and with one con- 
certed rush they headed back for the 
cabin to join Malcolm. If there had 
been any way of fast escape from the 
spot they would have taken it without 
a second’s thought. 

The giant was plainly puzzled, but 
Jim explained their actions as best he 



could. A frown appeared on the crea- 
ture’s forehead. He seemed to be think- 
ing. Tom and Jim, watching him, were 
puzzled trying to fathom his thoughts. 

The door opened again and the four 
men walked in, looking straight toward 
Glagula. For the first time Tom and 
Jim felt a slight fear. The rest of the 
party was helpless to oppose his will. 

The room was small, and with seven 
in it there was hardly air to breathe. 
When they were all standing around the 
wall facing him, the giant seemed to re- 
lease them. They looked startled at 
first, then fear showed plainly. When 
he looked at them to make his thoughts 
known they were more fearful than ever. 
There was no possibility of a friendly 
understanding immediately. 

The stranger gave it up with a sigh. 
These men weren’t worth bothering 
with. When they felt free to leave there 
was no time wasted. The door shut 
behind them before either Tom or Jim 
could say a word. 

It was a long time before Jim started 
back to the cabin. His friends had dis- 
appointed him, but he realized they were 
no different than the majority of the 
human race. It left him with a sort of 
empty, insignificant feeling toward his 
own. 

The giant was watching, reading his 
thoughts. Jim understood when Gla- 
gula let his mind say he was sorry things 
had to be that way. He had hoped to 
visit the world and learn its secrets ; but 
he knew now that it couldn’t be done; 
he would be a freak. There was no 
hope that a stranger from another planet 
could pass among the world of men 
without creating a sensation. 

Jim finally went back to the cabin. 
His four comrades were too upset even 
to ask questions. They talked together, 
in tones too low for Jim to understand. 
The little party seemed suddenly divided 
into two groups, an invisible barrier be- 
tween them. 



GLAGULA 



87 



THE rest of the day Jim spent in the 
small building with the giant. He and 
Tom thoroughly enjoyed the company 
of the stranger and spent hours in si- 
lent, mental conversation. They learned 
many things about his strange country 
and told him many things about their 
own Earth. 

The others wouldn’t come near all 
afternoon, but toward dark they came 
in a body to stand for a few minutes 
and look at the man. He paid no at- 
tention, did not try to create any men- 
tal contact with them. When they 
th(jught they had done their duty, they 
turned in a body to retrace their steps 
to the main building. 

Somewhere, only a short distance 
from where they found the man, was 
his ship. It must be covered with snow, 
as he had been. The man could not 
have gone far with his light clothing in 
the arctic cold. 

It was a fairly flat plain where they 
had camped and there was not much 
opportunity for anything of any size to 
be hidden by the snow. There was a 
slight ridge of snow a few hundred feet 
away, but after spending several hours 
ti'ggi'ig they struck earth. 

A dome of ice a half mile away had 
never been investigated. Now it caught 
their attention. They were tired from 
shoveling snow all day, but the possibil- 
ity of seeing a strange ship gave them 
new energy. Each man had created a 
different idea of the ship in his own 
mind. But they all knew it must be 
something strange to conquer space. 

When they drew closer, this dome 
appeared like ordinary ice, yet it was 
not until they had examined the ex- 
posed surface carefully that they knew 
it ended the search. 

If a petrified whale had been covered 
with snow and the skin had the glint 
and appearance of green glass ; that 
would describe the sight clearly. With 
one end large, it tapered to very near 
a point at the far end. It was impossi- 



ble to hold a footing on the smooth sur- 
face except directly on top, where there 
was no slope. 

The ship must be quite large, as the 
section above snow was nearly a hun- 
dred feet long and the widest part over 
thirty feet. The surface had the appear- 
ance of glass that had been walked on 
by thousands of feet until it no longer 
allowed any one to see what was inside. 

The five men walked back and forth, 
examining every inch of surface. It 
looked to be perfectly round at the large 
end. If they had not been looking for 
a ship it would have been passed un- 
noticed as just another peculiar ice 
formation. Upon careful scrutiny they 
could see fine hair lines in the surface, 
spaced evenly. These looked like very 
fine welded seams. It was a certainty, 
the ship was built of separate pieces. 
Jim had more than half expected to find 
it was just one huge casting of some 
kind. 

They went to w'ork, and before dark 
made a good impression on the surface. 
It would take weeks to uncover the 
whole ship, if there were enough of them 
to do it, during the time between storms. 
Darkness caught them before they had 
uncovered many feet more than was 
clear when they found it. 

The whole party w'as excited; Jim 
was the least affected of the group, for 
he had grown 'more accustomed to 
strange things. The others were more 
interested in the ship than they had 
been in the strange man. This was 
something they were not afraid of ; it 
did not seem superhuman. 

The next morning they were back at 
work as soon as there was light enough 
to see by. Instead of digging along the 
edge in different places, they went to 
work in one spot and soon had ex- 
posed quite a bit of the side. This 
area was gradually extended, and be- 
fore lunch, what appeared like a port 
in the side was uncovered. From then 
on the excitement knew no bounds. 



88 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



They did not want to stop for lunch, 
but finally gave in when nothing else 
was found in an hour. 

THE AFTERNOON passed the 
same way, until just before dark. Then 
the snow where they were working slid 
into a large opening in the hull. It was 
a port! Frantically the snow was dug 
out of the way and thrown to the side 
until the passage was clear enough so 
they could crawl into the entrance by 
getting down on hands and knees. 

It was too dark inside to see more 
than shadowy outlines of objects, but 
these set imaginations running riot. 
They cleared away enough snow out- 
side so there was no danger of the 
opening being covered again by wind. 
It was shoveled back and banked as a 
windbreak. When they turned toward 
the cabin it was pitch dark. 

The news of their success was wel- 
come to Glagula. He listened as Jim 
told Tom what he had seen of the ship. 
He described it in detail, but it did not 
seem to interest Tom to a great extent. 
He was satisfied to just sit in silent un- 
derstanding w'ith the giant. 

It was tiresome for Glagula to sit in- 
doors all the time, but the cold was a 
real menace to him. Used to much 
greater heat than the other men, the 
cold had that much greater effect. He 
even felt a chill when the door was 
opened, although it was uncomfortably 
warm inside. There were no clothes to 
fit him, and he had to get along by just 
wrapping blankets around himself for 
warmth. 

The giant seemed to take a slight 
liking toward the others w’hen he real- 
ized they had spent all day trying to 
dig out his ship ; but he and Tom seemed 
completely satisfied with each other’s 
company. There was a potent bond be- 
tween them. Tom was building a live 
interest in the other man’s world and 
listening, mentally, for hours, to descrip- 
tions of the civilization shown to him. 



Jim joined the main party just after 
daybreak in a hurried breakfast, then 
returned to the ship. The fever of 
curiosity was burning in them all. 

They entered the ship with a feeling 
of looking at another world. Things 
were strange, but there was some equip- 
ment which there was no mistaking. 
Rooms with sleeping equipment were 
built along one side, adjoining a well- 
stocked galley. Many strange foods 
were stored on the shelves in wrappers 
of thin material which evidently re- 
placed cans for preserving. 

There seemed to be no direct passage 
from the section they entered to the 
rest of the ship. This puzzled them 
considerably. There was a blank wall 
running through the middle of the ship, 
lengthwise, with no break in it. The 
section with the sleeping rooms and gal- 
ley was only about thirty feet long, but 
search as they might, there seemed no 
way to enter any other part of the ship. 

They searched every inch of wall 
without success, and were about ready 
to give up in disgust when Jim realized 
one of them was missing. Bill Heally 
was gone! He had been standing with 
them a minute before. John Forbes 
went out to see if it was possible he 
could have headed for camp without say- 
ing anything. There was no sign of 
him. 

The four men began to have creepy 
feelings along their spines. Even Jim 
felt that something was wrong. After 
thinking for several minutes they placed 
the spot he had been the last time they 
noticed. 

There was a small space side of the 
galley, like a small storage space, with- 
out anything in it. Harold Pratt re- 
membered Bill examining that space, 
and no one could recall seeing him after- 
ward. Jim approached the opening wdth 
a feeling of unexplainable trepidation. 

It was perfectly plain, with no sign 
of opening except to the passage they 
stood in. After a careful examination 



GLAGULA 



89 




The control cabin of the ship held their attention for quite a while, 
stopped Bill just before he tried one of the levers experimentally 



he stepped inside. It was just large 
enough to hold one man the size of 
the giant. He looked over the wall, 
but there was nothing; then some one 
was shouting in his ear. 

“Help! Help! Oh, is that you, Jim? 
I thought I had gone a little bit nutty. 
I was with you fellows one minute — 
the next I was in a different part of the 
ship. Boy, am I glad to see you!” 

Jim’s mouth hung c>pen. He was no 
longer where he had been ! He was 
with Bill Heally. The others had dis- 



ajijreared. Then the truth of what hap- 
pened cleared, although he did not try 
to understand. 

THE SPACE he had entered was 
the means of getting from one part of 
the ship to the other ; but he had felt 
no movement. Before him was the nose 
of the craft ; thdre was no mistaking it. 
A clear vision plate was before an in- 
strument panel, with odd charts and 
dials set in a sloping board overhead. 
The simplicity, yet the feeling of great 





90 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



power, held him in its grip for a mo- 
ment before he stepped forward to ex- 
amine at close range. 

As he bent over to see the small le- 
vers and buttons there was a commotion 
behind him. Harold Pratt was in the 
room with them; a second later John 
Forbes and Malcolm Green joined 
them. They had got up nerve enough 
to follow. 

The control cabin held their atten- 
tion for quite a while, and Jim stopped 
Bill just before he tried one of the levers 
experimentally. “Don’t! There might 
still be some power in this thing. We 
don’t want to find ourselves out in space 
somewhere.” 

It was a different matter to get out of 
the room again. The door or elevator — 
they never decided quite what it was — 
would not work. It evidently was auto- 
matic from only one direction. From 
this side it did not seem to operate. 

Jim thought over every possible solu- 
tion, but nothing would answer. As he 
stood in it, after giving up hope, he 
thought of the galley — and found him- 
self back there. For a moment the full 
significance did not appear. Then he 
realized — it was actuated by thought 
waves. When the truth was brought 
home he could not force himself to ap- 
proach it again for several minutes, but 
the thought of the others caught on the 
other side madd him find nerve enough 
to reenter the space. 

He was back with them before he had 
time to think what was happening. He 
explained, then experimented himself. 
He was not satisfied to stop his trip 
through the ship if there was any way 
to continue. Trying out a different 
thought, the action was very slow. ' He 
thought of the engine room, but evi- 
dently the mechanism could not under- 
stand just what he wanted. 

He stood for two or three minutes ; 
.^then, as if it had figured out what he 
wanted, like a human brain, he was sud- 



denly at the point he wanted to reach. 
It was uncanny, but it worked. He 
returned, after some trouble, and per- 
suaded the others to follow him. He 
knew what the room looked like, and 
the “space that moved” as they nick- 
named it, carried him back without a 
hitch. The others appeared a moment 
later. 

It took them some minutes to recover 
from the feeling of mystery enough so 
they could enjoy their surroundings. 
The warmth of the ship began to affect 
them. Excitement had been enough to 
hold their attention to other things be- 
fore. 

It must have been close to a hundred 
inside the hull. There was some source 
of warmth beyond their understanding. 
Everything in the ship had the same 
temperature, yet this did not affect the 
snow lying against the hull. Their 
heavy garments began to come off one 
after the other to hang over arms as 
they continued the tour. 

The engine room was a disappoint- 
ment. There was nothing to see ! One 
huge box, or case, in the center was the 
only object aside from a few gauges on 
the wall. It was very plain, with no 
sign of a motor to drive the ship. There 
was no possible way for the box to 
connect with the outer hull so as to give 
driving force. It evidently employed 
some unknown power. 

The rest of the small party was will- 
ing to follow Jim, as if they felt he was 
the only way to get out of the ship. He 
led them from one part of the hull to 
another, but there was not a great deal 
of interest to be seen. Too many of 
the things were not understandable. 

He found that, thinking of any part 
of the ship while standing in the space 
that moved, placed him there instantly. 
They could tour the whole hull with- 
out trouble. Each time he went to a 
new room he returned to the others 
to tell them where to come, otherwise 



GLAGULA 



91 



they might find themselves in separate 
sections. 

One big storage room was very in- 
teresting. They spent a long time there. 
Food enough to feed an army was 
stored away in neat tiers. It was very 
interesting to look at food that only 
faintly resembled any on Earth. The 
containers were semistiff, but of very 
tough material. 

IV. 

IT WAS NOON before they re- 
turned to camp. Time had flown. Jim 
got lunch and took it over to Tom and 
the stranger before he told them of the 
further discoveries. 

They tried to figure out some means 
of transporting the giant to the ship. 
'I'liere he would have a warm atmos- 
phere, with room enough to move 
around. But there seemed no way to 
get him there without exposure to the 
cold. The only possible method was to 
wrap him in heavy blankets and draw 
him on the sled they used to move heavy 
things around camp. Even that would 
be dangerous. 

Jim was certain the heat in the ship 
was sufficient to make him comfortable, 
with room to get a little exercise. He 
hadn’t been able to move more than a 
few feet from the time he was revived. 
The ship would make more comfortable 
living quarters for all of them. 

During the evening he spoke to the 
others about moving the stranger, and 
they joined him in trying to devise some 
way. The relief they would feel at be- 
ing separated farther from him, rather 
than his comfort, drove them to think 
of every type of conveyance. They de- 
cided finally to construct a shelter on 
the sled — not very big, but large enough 
to hold the man — which could be heated 
enough to keep him from freezing. 

In the morning they went to work 
building the shelter, and installed one of 
the small oil heaters. With padding, it 



would be very comfortable, and they 
could move him safely. Before dark it 
was finished, but they waited until the 
following morning for the trip. The 
sled with the shelter was heavy, and 
with the man inside, it would be a ter- 
rific task. 

Jim returned to the ship and made 
sure it was heat, and not just imagina- 
tion, which made him sweat inside the 
hull. The temperature remained the 
same. The heat had a peculiar quality, 
very much the same as rotting vegeta- 
tion casts off. 

ANOTHER EVENING passed 
while Jim and Tom spent their time in 
silent exchange of thoughts with the 
giant. He had a wonderful mind, and 
it was a pleasure to be able to see the 
visions passing within that brain like 
a marvelous moving picture, displaying 
scenes of surpassing beauty, set in a 
strange land. 

The pictures were so clear Jim felt 
he would know where he was if sud- 
denly transported. Many of the sights 
were beyond his faintest comprehension 
— too intricate for minds unaccustomed 
to their use. Great machines with 
slowly moving parts, performing tasks 
of every description. There seemed no 
speed to any of the big machines, just 
silent, powerful forces working at a 
majestic rate. They did not strain; 
there was ample power without effort. 

The means of transportation were 
very odd. For all surface travel this 
world used moving platforms. Through 
the rural districts these were units ; but 
in the cities they were a steady-moving 
belt. Set on the level with the ground, 
it was simple to get on or off. Where 
there was high speed required, they 
changed from one track to another with 
a gradual increase in speed, until the 
platform was flying along at many miles 
an hour. On the faster tracks wind- 
breaks protected the riders from the 
blasts as they shot forward, but nowhere 



92 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



was there a ground track with any kind 
of cover. 

There was nothing to show any sort 
of protection from storms. They were 
not prepared for them, and evidently 
did not have any. A strange world in- 
deed, without fear of the elements. A 
land of perpetual sunshine, for the .sun 
never dropped below the horizon. The 
glow of sunshine came through a con- 
stant filming of mist, diffusing the light 
evenly over the landscape. The sun 
changed position every few hours, and 
sank toward the ground only to swing 
up again before it could dip below the 
rim of the horizon. 

The planet seemed to be very close 
to its sun. The only reason it was 
habitable was the protection of the thick 
cloud banks, throwing back the rays 
before they could touch the surface. 

Jim asked about the other side of the 
planet with his mind, and a great fear 
and dread of the dark surface showed 
plainly on the giant’s face, while his 
mind showed such strained and tortured 
pictures it was hard for the Earthmen 
to follow the thoughts. They turned 
their minds quickly away from this 
nightmare. 

Animals vaguely resembling the do- 
mestic beasts of Earth, but of much 
greater proportion, grazed in the sun- 
lighted fields. There were, unmistak- 
ably, some milch animals. These re- 
sembled the nearly extinct bison of the 
western plain more than any other type 
of Earth animal. They appeared as 
gentle as cows, and were handled and 
trained the same way. They were also 
the great supply of meat, and huge herds 
were raised for the city markets. 

Glagula held some exalted position 
among his own people, wielding power 
and influence. Tom and Jim relived the 
start of the interplanetary flight, saw 
a vast crowd watching him take off. 
There were two others in the party 
when they started, but a terrible ex- 



perience on a small planet midway to 
Earth cost both their lives. Glagula 
carried many scars from the encounter 
with completely savage beings. Truly, 
the trip between planets had beetr a 
great adventure. 

Slowly the thoughts faded as the giant 
looked at Tom and Jim expectantly. 
They followed with complete pictures 
of Earth civilization. Several times 
Glagula stopped them to have the pic- 
tures of heat and fire gone over a sec- 
ond time. Heat seemed completely be- 
yond his comprehension ; fire stirred a 
strange unrest in him. He had dis- 
played great fear of the stove at first, 
but gradually became accustomed to it. 
Any flame or intense heat was far too 
great a wonder for him to try and un- 
derstand. 

Several times he tried to show his 
lack of understanding, and had them 
explain different means of controlling 
fire. When they showed pictures of big 
fires destroying buildings, with men 
working to stop the spread, a satisfied 
expression appeared on his face, as 
much as to say, “I knew it, they can’t 
control it.” This was amusing at first, 
but there was no question but what it 
presented a fearful picture to him. 

Steam power was a strange force to 
him, although he seemed to have a very 
good understanding of electrical energy. 
A gasoline motor was another marvel 
when he saw heat harnessed directly 
for work. These Earthmen certainly 
had to fight hard for existence, conquer- 
ing terrible monsters of power to do 
their work. He was satisfied to live in 
his own land. 

IN THE MORNING tliey heated 
the sled shelter to the point where the 
rest of the party would have been ex- 
ceedingly uncomfortable, yet it would 
probably feel cool to the giant. It was 
warm enough to avoid danger in ' the 
short trip, and the stove, installed, would 
hold the temperature. 



GLAGULA 



93 



Before noon they were ready, and the 
giant was shut in the shelter for the 
heavy haul to the ship. Tom joined 
the others in the long pull. It was more 
of a task than they anticipated, with a 
man weighing over five hundred pounds 
inside. The snow was soft and the run- 
ners cut deep, but slowly the distance 
was covered. 

The sled was too large to be pulled 
into the port, and the giant had to enter 
the ship himself. It gave him a chill 
that lasted several minutes from ex- 
posure to cold for only a moment, but 
there were no ill effects once he was 
in the warmth of the interior. The cold 
seemed to p>enetrate every pore in his 
body in a moment. They massaged his 
hands and feet to return the circulation 
to normal. A moment in the cold for 
Glagula was as serious as an hour for 
the Earthmen. 

In many ways the giant was a very 
hardy individual, but cold broke down 
all his resistance. His skin whitened as 
jf frosted, and the same treatment was 
used as if he suffered from frostbite. 
Only they used lukewarm water, heated 
hurriedly on the stove. Snow would 
have been disastrous to him. It re- 
mained a mystery how the man could 
ever have traveled so far from the ship 
when he landed. He must have suffered 
untold tortures. 

Glagula was happy. The ship was 
home to him. He went through one 
section after the other with eyes glowing. 
It was his; a breath of the home planet 
— comfort such as he had not known 
since returning to consciousness. Every- 
thing was in perfect condition. Nothing 
had been injured by the exposure to 
cold and storms. 

It was lunch time, and Glagula in- 
vited them to have lunch with him. Tom 
and Jim were delighted. The others 
hesitated for a moment, but they, too, 
joined the party. 

The Earthmen sat down to the strang- 
est meal they had ever known. Meat 



of unknown flavor, but very delicious, 
with vegetables tasting as fresh as if just 
picked from the garden. Nothing had 
any of the taste of preserved food. It 
was fresh ! To the little party, who had 
been in a frozen country for many 
weeks, tbe green foods were a great 
treat. Secretly they hoped the invita- 
tion would be followed by more. 

Clear, cool water replaced the melted 
snow they had lived on for a long time. 
The water was warm, as Glagula drew 
it from a small container on the wall, 
but Bill took the glasses, or glassite con- 
tainers outside for a moment and re- 
turned with a drink they w’ould have 
walked many miles to receive. 

The water tank was a puzzle. There 
was no way for the water to enter it, 
yet they drew off more than the tank 
could hold, and the giant offered them 
all they could drink without fear of ex- 
hausting the supply. The men were not 
slow to drink their fill; it was worth 
more than all the strange food he could 
offer. 

Harold Pratt disappeared after lunch 
and returned with every container he 
could find in camp to fill with the fresh 
water. This seemed to amuse the giant 
immensely, but he let him have all the 
water he wanted. Still the tank did 
not show any sign of emptying, but con- 
tinued to flow as if it tapped an end- 
less supply. 

Tom and Jim accepted two of the , 
staterooms in the hull. It was uncom- 
fortably warm, but worth the little dis- 
comfort to be able to spend more time 
with the man. He explained as clearly 
as he could the operation of the ship, 
but its principle of action remained 
vague in their minds. The power sup- 
ply was intact; the ship seemed to be 
in as good condition as when landed. 

The others returned to sleep in camp. 
Tom and Jim could not persuade them 
to enjoy the comfort of perfect beds for 
a change. They still could not accus- 
tom themselves to the proximity of the. 



94 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



giant. To them he remained a mystery 
man, endowed with superhuman power. 
They had not forgotten his bringing 
them into the small building under con- 
trol of his will. They did not actually 
fear the man, but safety was the better 
part of valor. 

When the three were alone, Giagula 
smiled and a thought reached them. He 
was going to give Tom and Jim a treat. 
He called them into the pilot house, and 
after looking over the instruments, 
pulled a small lever. 

A slight vibration throughout the 
ship resulted. Then he moved the lever 
back farther and the ship moved free 
of the snow. When it stopped, it hung 
several hundred feet above the ground. 
The rise had felt more like the swift 
motion of an elevator than any other 
motion. Their breath was taken away 
by the ease with which the ship had 
forced itself out of snow that would 
have taken weeks to clear away. 

Power beyond anything they had 
ever dreamed ! Power under perfect 
control, ready at the touch of a hand ! 
A ship operated without a single mov- 
ing part! No propellers, no blast tubes, 
nothing that seemed able to move the 
ship, yet it sailed as easily as if an in- 
visible hand were lifting it. 

The marvel of the action held the two 
Earthmen spellbound until the ship set- 
tled again, this time only a few steps 
from the camp, building. They could 
picture the consternation of their 
friends when the ship was found just 
outside the door in the morning. 

Jim went to bed, to spend a night in 
the greatest comfort he had known in 
several months. The bedding was soft, 
and warm without weight. As he sank 
into the mattress, vents opened in the 
inner hull, and cool air soothed him. 
He had worked hard, with very little 
sleep, for several days, and there was 
nothing less than a cannon under his 
ear which could disturb him. 



V. 

WHEN he finally awakened the ship 
was moving. He jumped out of bed to 
peer through a small clear plate in the 
wall. They were slowly sailing across 
the flat plain. The ship went nearly to 
the mountains, then made a slow circle 
and sailed back. There seemed to be 
no reason for the action, and he diur- 
riedly donned clothes and went to find 
the giant. 

Tom and the stranger were bent over 
a small instrument in the pilot house 
when he reached it. They did not at 
once notice his presence. It allowed 
Jim to tune in on their mental conver- 
sation. The thoughts of the giant were 
strong enough for him to understand 
without effort. 

“I am glad, Tom, that you have de- 
cided to go with me. I will enjoy your 
company on the trip, and a man with 
your knowledge will have a place wait- 
ing for him in my world. It is well that 
we are able to give your friends what 
they sought without success. It would 
be wise for you to leave all that should 
lielong to you to your friend, Jim. You 
will have no more need of anything 
here.” 

One thing was plain : Tom was going 
with the giant ! It seemed like a return 
to the strange planet — but could it be? 

They felt his presence after a minute, 
and Tom looked up to see the question- 
ing expression. “You know what we 
plan, Jim. Don’t try to change my 
mind. It will be a great adventure; 
life may hold more there for me than 
it possibly can here. 

“We have been searching for the gold 
lode on the plain. It is only a short 
distance from the spot we were work- 
ing, and shows signs of rich ore. It 
will probably make you all wealthy. I 
want you to have my share. The others 
will have enough without taking mine, 
too. You and I have been close friends, 
while I owe them nothing. 



GLAGULA 



95 



“I will tell them you’re going to have 
my share so there can be no mistake. 
I don’t want them to know what’s go- 
ing to happen. They will take my word 
about my share just in case anything 
happens to me. 

“Some day I’ll return to see you if I 
can. I would like to have you with us, 
but you have a family. I have no one.” 

It was a great adventure — a dream of 
stars and galaxies — of infinity. 

When the ship finally settled down 
they had checked and rechecked the lo- 
cation of metal. There could be no 
mistake. Glagula’s instruments told the 
location as plainly as a map, and they 
set the ship down a few feet from the 
spot. 

The others had been watching them 
circle around, and came rushing to the 
hull. Tom let them in and explained 
there was enough energy to still move 
the ship a little, and they had located 
the gold. Forgotten was the ship and 
the stranger. To Glagula’s great amuse- 
ment they rushed for shovels to start 
work. Gold! 

GOLD! What was a stranger from 
another planet compared to that. Be- 
fore they started digging, Tom stopped 
them. 

“There is just one thing more, fel- 
lows. I feel I may never reach civiliza- 
tion to use my share. I want Jim to 
have all that belongs to me. You’ll 
each have sufficient to take care of you 
the rest of your lives, if it turns out 
the way it looks. Will you promise 
now that Jim gets all that belongs to 
me if I don’t get back?” 

They were quick to promise. He was 
holding them up from the work. What 
a lot of foolishness! The gold was the 
important thing. Nothing else mat- 
tered. 

Jim watched them hurry out, then 



turned to Tom. “When are you leav- 
ing, Tom? It will mean a lot to me to 
see you go.” 

“We figure on starting as soon as my 
things are all on board. • There is no 
point in waiting. The others will hardly 
miss me now. They’re too excited. 
Some day I’ll be back, Jim. I don’t 
want to live this life out without seeing 
the Earth again. If you need us — send 
for us.” 

Jim helped carry the bags aboard and 
silently shook hands. When the giant 
gripped Jim’s he thought it was going 
to be crushed, but kept a straight face. 
It was real friendship. He turned and 
walked slowly out of the open port. It 
slammed to behind him. 

In his hand was a small piece of metal 
set with a peculiar stone. The giant 
had handed it to him as he shook hands. 

Slowly the ship rose above his head. 
Tom waved from the clear plate in front. 
It rose several hundred feet, then started 
forward and slowly increased speed un- 
til it traveled like a bullet over the 
mountains in the distance. Jim finally 
turned away, a catch in his throat. 

THEY FOUND their gold and re- 
turned wealthy men, but all lips were 
sealed in a pact of silence. They claimed 
Tom was lost in the snow and never 
found. It was as good a story as any 
that would be believed. Even Jim 
sometimes caught himself believing — 
but there remained an empty spot his 
friend had filled. Then he would look 
at his memento — a strange stone — not 
ruby nor emerald — not even of Earth. 
And Tom had promised to return — he 
never broke a promise! — that fact and 
Tom’s last words, “If you need us — 
send for us.” Somehow that stone and 
Tom’s words were linked together in 
his mind ! 



A scientific 
discussion 



Accuracy 

The first article in a 
fascinating series which 
will include the entire 
solar system 

by John W. 

Campbell, Jr. 




Tycho 

Brahe’s 

Quadrant 



P RACTICALLY no statement 
made in this series will be ex- 
actly accurate, perhaps a tenth 
will be Inaccurate to the point of 
virtual uselessness, and at least a twen- 
tieth will be wholly wrong. But that 
is the fault of lack of preparation, and 
lack of time to study the subject. Men 
have had less than one full century to 
use telescopes with the necessary accu- 
racy. 

In astronomy, time is so immensely 
important because errors and displace- 
ments become cumulative and hence ob- 
servable. Pluto was discovered because 



over a period of years systematic map- 
ping of the heavens by photography had 
been carried out, and finally enough time 
had elapsed so that the cumulative dis- 
placement of Pluto’s slow motion in its 
orbit built up and added till it became 
a visible difference between a plate sev- 
eral years old and a comparatively re- 
cent plate. Time is important. 

Accuracy is important ; by it a theory 
may stand or fall. Newton’s theory of 
gravitation was right but inaccurate. 
But it took cumulative work over years 
to detect the slight difference Einstein’s 
law expresses. 



AST-6 





ACCURACY 



97 



In 500 B. C. the Greek philosopher 
Plilolaus advanced the theory that the 
Earth revolved on its axis, and followed 
an orbit about the Sun; others followed 
and agreed with him, though the gen- 
eral belief was in the apparent immo- 
bility of the Earth, with moving Sun. 
Moon, and stars. 

In 100 A. D. the two theories were 
in existence, and Ptohney worked on 
the theoiy of the stationary Earth. He 
combined his mathematical observations 
with observations of the planets and the 
Sun and Moon and finally, by immense 
labor, he developed the theory of cycles 
and epicycles : a rotating dome of 
heaven, across which the planets, the 
Sun, and the iVIoon moved, following a 
series of curved tracks. 

Without the data represented by 
knowledge of gravitation, inertia and 
action and reaction, both theories seemed 
equally tenable — the rotating Earth go- 
ing about the Sun and the rotating bowl 
of heaven. Then the two must stand 
or fall by test of observation. 

Ptolmey’s won, because Ptohney’s was 
more accurate, not because people liked 
it l>etter. Sailors don’t worry about 
how they like a theory, they want it 
to predict where they can look for star 
or planet to guide them. Ptolmey’s did, 
more accurately than the theory of the 
orbits. 

Accuracy had defeated the circular 
orbit by 125 A. D. At that time, the 
human eye being a very old observa- 
tional instrument, and already at about 
its peak, there was little change in ac- 
curacy. Not till nearly 1600 was suffi- 
cient advance made in observational ac- 
curacy to detect errors in Ptolmey’s 
theory. 

About 1600 A. D. Tycho Brahe was 
doing his work. Tycho was a crusty 
old man, then, and not at all a theorist. 
He was not above practicing astrology, 
in which he did not greatly believe, to 
gain ends in which he thoroughly be- 
lieved : bigger and better observational 

AST— 7 



instruments, in a quite literal sense. 
To get second, marks one sixteenth of 
an inch apart on a quadrant of 90 de- 
grees, each degree having sixty minutes, 
in each of which are sixty seconds, 
would require a structure almost half 
again as high as the Empire State Build- 
ing. Tycho couldn’t get that. 

But Tycho did build instruments of 
unexampled size. He used whole walls 
to lay out his quadrants ; he used slits 
in the walls of a round tower for peep- 
holes while he stood on the other side 
of the tower to get accuracy. 

He got accuracy, more than any man 
before him had, but he didn’t stop to 
theorize. He recorded his data, and 
sought more. It was Kepler who did 
the theorizing on Tycho’s data, some 
years later. Copernicus had revived the 
orbital planet hypothesis about 1525 
with such convincing arguments it was 
never again abandoned, but he again 
had circular orbits. 

At first Kepler, too, assumed circu- 
lar orbits, but so accurate were Ty- 
cho’s observations, they ruled out both 
the circular orbit and very definitely 
the Ptolmaic theory as well. For the 
first time, Kepler abandoned the per- 
fect curve, the circle, and tried and 
found the elipse. At last they had a 
theory that greater accuracy merely 
strengthened. 

Perhaps it is not fair to call Ptol- 
mey’s system a theory to explain so 
much as a highly ingenious and suc- 
cessful system of mathematical analysis 
to locate planets. From that viewpoint 
it is, was and always will be a triumph, 
because it was absolutely successful for 
over a millennium and a half. Greater 
accuracy made it, as a system of mathe- 
matics, useless. 

Modern work depends on the tele- 
scope’s power of magnification — not of 
objects but of lack of objects, the mag- 
nification of separation. The eye can- 
not separate two stars less than four 
and a half minutes of arc apart, while 



98 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



the telescope measures accurately a 
star’s displacement of three fourths of 
a second caused by Earth’s movement 
around the Sun — a quantity about one 
three-hundredth as great. 

The work of time and accuracy of 
vision combine to make possible the de- 
tection of binary stars. It takes as much 
as five centuries for some binary stars 
to complete one circuit of their orbits, 
and the telescope is required to sepa- 
rate them visually. Without the tele- 
scope, we would see one star. With 
the telescope, over a period of time, we 
would see two independent stars that 
happened to be close together. Only 
time makes their slow orbital creep 
observable. 

But the telescope has its limitations, 
of course, for, accurate as it is in the 
measurement of angles, once beyond the 
solar system the angles it is called upon 
to measure are too minute for even the 
greatest instrument’s capabilities. The 
lower limit of error is approximately 
.CX)5" of arc, and that limit of error 
means that stars more than 650 light 
years away cannot be located by di- 
rect measure of triangulation with an 
accuracy greater than one part in two. 
The error is equal to the quantity to be 
measured. 

Then evidently, if we want to retain 
accuracy, we must keep away from slight 
angles; if all measurements contain at 
least that error, the bigger the angle 
measured, the smaller the percentage of 
error. 

The distance to the Moon can be 
found by having one observatory on one 
side of the Earth and one on the an- 
tipodal point of the Earth, both focused 
on some selected spot on the Moon. 
We know the diameter of the Earth, and 
thus with three angles and a side of 
the triangle, we can readily determine 
the distance to the Moon. 

Extremely accurate work on the 
Earth itself has determined its diameter 



with precision about equal to the con- 
stancy of the planet — it is distorted by 
tides, planetary cross pulls, earthquakes, 
by the seasonal shifting of incalculable 
tons of snow and ice, etc. — to be 
7,899,984 miles. 

The distance to the Moon works out 
to be 238,854 miles. And because the 
angles are quite measurable, and the 
diameter of the Earth quite accurately 
determined we have a right to say the 
last figure is just about 4, and the fig- 
ure certainly isn’t as much as 238,875 
miles. 

But the next step is the Sun, and 
there we simply can’t get a big angle. 
It’s just about the same angle you have 
between your left eye and your right 
eye looking at a man a mile away. It 
is vanishingly small, anyway, and fur- 
thermore that optimum figure of only a 
few thousands of a second error doesn’t 
apply because the conditions are not 
optimum. 

The Sun is shining on the instruments 
— they don’t use the big telescopes l)e- 
cause it would ruin them to have the 
full heat of the sun strike them — and 
they are distorted. The air is heated 
unevenly, so that it acts to produce heat 
ripples, and the image of the Sun 
wavers badly, more so than the image 
of a star on a clear, cool night, and the 
distance we are trying to measure is 
some 11,000 times our base line. 

We can’t get a good determination, 
and we won’t till we set up our ob- 
servatory on the Moon, where there is 
no interfering atmosphere. We’ll rough 
it in as about 92,897,000 miles, but know 
that our error is such that that last 
figure isn’t any too good; it may be 
887 or it may be 907, or 900, but it is 
about that. 

But we can do this : We will assume 
that the distance is one unit ; we will 
define it as one astronomical unit, and 
let the exact distance go for a bit. But 
since we defined it, whatever it is in 
miles as being one unit, we can go on 



ACCURACY 



99 



from there and assemble another few 
dozen of the scraps of the cosmic jig- 
saw puzzle of knowledge, isolated as 
yet, but ones we can connect in with 
other blocks later, when we know what 
that unit is in actual miles. For the 
time we can make progress along other 
lines. 

We can use a new base line now: 
the diameter, not of the lElarth, but of 
Earth’s orbit, not 8,000 miles now, but 
186,000,000 miles. Now to determine 
the distance to Mars. We can (firect 
telescopes toward it in June, and again 
in December, when Earth has moved 
on hundreds of millions of miles. Mars 
has moved, too, but there are fairly easy 
ways to eliminate that in the equation. 

The angle formed from the June po- 
sition, the December position, and Mars 
gives us three angles of the triangle, 
and our orbit gives us a base line two 
units long. The base line is the same 
sort of size that the distance we are 
measuring is, so the angles are large and 
easy to measure accurately, much more 
accurately than we can measure the 
angle to the Sun. 

The same sort of system applies for 
Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and 
Pluto, all superior planets, planets be- 
yond the Earth from the Sun. 

For the inferior or inner planets, 
Venus and Mercury, a slightly different 
system is needed, but the general outline 
is the same. 

Step One has been taken; we have 
laid out the solar system to scale, with 
a pretty fair idea of its accurate size. 
The t4ble now reads: 



Distance From The Distance From The 
Sun In Astronemical Sun In Approximate 



Planet 

MERCURY 


Units 

0.3871 


Milas 

35,960,000 


VENUS 


0.7233 


67,200,000 


EARTH 


1.0000 


92,897,000 


MARS 


1.5237 


141,540,000 


JUPITER 


5.2028 


483,310,000 


SATURN 


9.5388 


886,100,000 


URANUS 


19.1910 


1,782,700,000 


NEPTUNE 


30.0707 


2,793,400,000 


PLUTO 


39.5967 


3,680,000,000 



Knowing now their distances from 
the Sun, and our own distance from 
the Sun, it is easy to calculate their 
distances from us at any given moment. 
With photographs which give the ap- 
parent diameter of the planet, knowing 
the magnification the telescope made, it 
is easy to calculate the actual diameter 
of the planet. 

We get results fairly accurate for all 
save Pluto, so far and so small that it 
is very difficult to photograph, though 
the very fact that it is difficult gives 
us some data as to the planet’s size. It 
certainly isn’t large. The results on 
their diameters plus results from cal- 
culations on their gravitational influ- 
ences on other planets, their own satel- 
lites if they have any, give us their 
masses, and finally their densities. 
They range : 



Planet 

MERCURY 


Dieiiieter 

(Miiee) 

3,009 


Mass 

(Earth=l) 

0.04? 


Deaaltjr 

3.80? 


VENUS 


7,575 


0.81? 


5.09? 


EARTH 


7,919 


1.000 


5.52 


MARS 


4.216 


0.108 


3.95 


JUPITER 


86,728 


316.940 


1.33 


SATURN 


72,430 


94.920 


0.73 


URANUS 


30,878 


14.582 


1.36 


NEPTUNE 


32,932 


16.93 


1.30 


PLUTO 


S.??? 


.2?? 


4.?? 



It will be noticed that the diameter 
of Pluto, in fact all its properties, are 
questioned, for the photographs are so 
inaccurate. The masses, and hence the 
densities, of Mercury and Venus are 
questioned because, having no satellites, 
they cannot be “weighed” as accurately 
as the planets having satellites. Actu- 
ally, the indicated data on Pluto is sci- 
entifically called an “estimate” and col- 
loquially, “an educated guess.” 

The solar system is taking shape, but 
a surprising and intensely interesting 
shape! It is not one. but two systems! 



This scientific discussion of the solar 
system will be continued next month. 



Ofigin of Thought 

by Spencer Lane 



ERRY MOORE read the advertise- 
ment through once more and flung 
tlie paper down disgustedly. He 
liitched his hat lower over his eyes, fin- 
gered the last, lone nickel in his pocket, 
then slowly reached down for the paper. 

The wortls “good salary” stuck but 



and danced before his eyes like a bar- 
ber pole on a spree. But he knew too 
much about the man whose name was 
printed at the end of the item. Jerry’s 
hand moved once more, as if to fling 
the paper aside, but a twinge of hun- 
ger made him draw it back, again. 






ORIGIN OF THOUGHT 



101 



Half the civilized world was up in 
arms about the statements made by 
Professor Hill. They called him a sci- 
entist gone mad, an opportunist scaveng- 
ing a fortune from ignorant people; in 
fact, they called him everything that 
could be politely translated into print. 

And it was true that, in growing 
numbers, men and women in the com- 
mon walks of life were forming “Pro- 
fessor Hill” clubs. They were accept- 
ing his teaching as that of a new dis- 
pensation ! 

The professor’s statements that 
thought had active power were out- 
rageous. Yet through some unexplained 
chicanery he was convincing hordes of 
willing listeners. Worse, these follow- 
ers swore to the truth of his claims. 
They themselves had been able, under 
his guidance, to make inanimate objects 
move by mere thought projection. The 
better-trained groups — advanced classes 
■ — were able to reproduce tones on a 
piano, ring bells, and perform other feats 
which were seemingly impossible. 

Jerry Moore viewed the hysteria as 
a grand-stand stunt executed by a clever 
charlatan. Where Hill went, what he 
ate, the last detail of the clothes he wore 
each day, made the front pages of the 
Metropolitan dailies. 

Every word the professor spoke in 
public was quoted, and the more com- 
plete the account of his activities, the 
better the sale of the paper which car- 
ried it! 

His name crept into advertising. One 
cereal announced over Hill’s endorse- 
ment, “A brain food — leaves a clear 
mind for mental endeavor.” Cars, ra- 
dios, linens, and furniture ads followed, 
with neatly turned phrases of commen- 
dation from the professor’s lips. 

It was disgusting — but Jerry was 
hungry I 

He had tried for job after job. But 
experienced men tried, too. And Jer- 
ry’s lifelong experience liad been made 
up of spending the money his father had 



left him. He and useful work had been 
strangers too long! 

Professor Hill’s advertisement seemed 
like a last resort, yet he hesitated. The 
final argument which made him note 
the address was his hunger. Jerry 
hadn’t had a square meal in three days ! 
His fingers pinched hard on that last, 
lone nickel in his pocket. It was either 
carfare, or — and he might not get the 
job! — a cup of coffee. After that there 
was the bre^ line at one of the charity 
places. Funny if it came to that. He’d 
given them money many times. At 
least he would feel his food was paid 
for. 

It was getting toward noon when 
Jerry arrived at the professor's build- 
ing. It was new, built as a school. 
Probably with some of the publicity 
money, Jerry thought, as he watched 
the throngs passing in and out. Pro- 
fessor Hill’s name showed blatantly on 
their books. 

He entered and approached the desk 
marked “Information.” 

“Did you wish to join one of the 
classes? The first door to the right 
for registration.” The girl hadn’t 
waited for him to speak. 

“Sorry, beautiful, but I’m not a cus- 
tomer.” Jerry grinned. At least the 
receptionist was interesting. But the 
look she gave him cooled his admiration 
several degrees. 

“Then what do you want?” The 
note of sarcasm persuaded him that she 
wasn’t really pretty. 

“Sorry, miss. I came looking for the 
job you advertised.” 

“You’ll have to wait, then,” she told 
him, “the professor’s class is in session. 
What’s your name?” 

“Jerry Moore, in person” — he bowed 
stiffly, his eyes dancing — “much in need 
of employment. If I get the job, maybe 
you’ll go to lunch with me. I enjoy 
a meal — when I have one. You might 
like to see a really hungry man eat.” 
The girl turned her back. 



102 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



TEN MINUTES LATER an office 
boy led him to the professor’s office, a 
huge room with silvered walls and ceil- 
ing. A quick glance showed it to be 
severely simple in its furnishings. Just 
a mahogany desk, two cabinets, and a 
half dozen chairs. 

Tlie man was very cordial. He ex- 
tended his hand as if to an old friend. 

“Come in, come in and sit down, Mr. 
Moore. Miss Hartford has told me 
something about you. She didn’t like 
your calling her beautiful.” 

Jerry could feel his neck and ears 
burning, but the professor only leaned 
back and laughed. 

“Don’t be too much upset, Mr. 
Moore,” he continued, “I knew your 
father very well. Went to the same 
school with him. You’re just a chip 
off the old block. The only difference 
is” — the man leaned forward and shook 
his finger in Jerry’s face — “you spend 
money where he made it. 

“I know your qualifications, so there’s 
no need of an examination. There’ve 
been few applicants who could qualify 
at all. Perhaps you will hesitate, but 
I suppose you need money. 

“I’ll pay you a hundred dollars a 
week, and I’ll get it back ten times over 
through the use of your name. I’ll put 
you through a hard training to awaken 
your mind, then teach you to receive 
thought from a large group of people. 

“I plan to try and transport you by 
thought waves! 

“If it works, you may find yourself 
in some strange part of the world. Of 
course. I’ll try then to bring you back 
again, but should I fail in that you’ll 
have to look out for yourself wherever 
you may happen to be. 

“Perhaps the experiment will fail ; but 
if it works you’ll have a reputation 
worth a fortune to you. Meantime, you 
will spend five hours a day at study — 
all your mind can absorb. 

“That’s the job. It will entail some 
d<inger. If you want to try it I can 



advance money enough for you to en- 
joy yourself until the test comes. I’ll 
advance, say, six months’ salary. You 
might be away from civilization for a 
long time and unable to draw your sal- 
ary. How about it?” 

Jerry was slow to answer. He had 
considered this man a four-flusher — but 
how had he been so sure who Jerry 
was unless through mental suggestion? 
The professor had painted a fascinating 
picture. Jerry could almost see himself 
in some far corner of the world, lost, 
alone. 

He’d traveled, was familiar with many 
foreign ports, but — this was different. 
Professor Hill was awaiting his answer, 
silently. 

Jerry’s appetite forced the answer, 
finally. He was hungry. And what 
chance was there of being thought to 
some distant spot? Yes, he wanted the 
job. 

With two hundred dollars in his 
pocket, and more available when he 
needed it, the world felt better. He was 
free to enjoy himself until the following 
afternoon when he was to have his first 
lesson. Jerry stopped at the informa- 
tion desk as he went through the hall. 

“Thanks to you, beautiful,” he said, 
“I got the job. Hence we can eat. Will 
you keep that luncheon date with me? 
It’ll be very enlightening to watch a 
man who hasn’t had a meal in three 
days. It will be great for mental de- 
velopment.” 

THE COURSE was all the profes- 
sor had promised. Jerry finished each 
lesson with a headache; and the mere 
thought of them would give him a head- 
ache when he wasn’t studying I He was 
learning to control his brain, to make it 
do odd stunts that hooked the subcon- 
scious to the conscious control. 

He learned, gradually, to let outside 
thoughts take affect on him; only the 
professor’s at first, then a slowly in- 
creasing number of the most advanced 



ORIGIN OF THOUGHT 



103 



students in school. His brain seemed 
to be ripped apart at times, and hurled 
like a football. There was never a les- 
son — after the first five — ended without 
his sweating under a terrific and terri- 
ble strain. 

Fear that the experiment might work 
began to bother him, but he wouldn’t 
quit. He’d used too much of the pro- 
fessor’s money to give up now. He’d 
permitted his name to be used ex- 
tensively for publicity. 

Newsmen followed him everywhere, 
and he liked it. His picture was in ev- 
ery paper, building up the “great men- 
tal experiment.” 

His money had made him known 
once; and the professor let it be taken 
for granted that he was giving his time 
now. Every step of the plan was made 
public. The press was to be allowed to 
witness the test in full force. 

Jerry was coming to like the profes- 
sor, and to hope in a half-hearted way, 
for the plan to succeed. As his con- 
tribution he fried hard to learn and to 
understand what was required of him. 
Lunch with Helen Hartford became not 
only an accomplished fact, but an every- 
day affair; and there were shows to be 
seen during the evenings. 

Weeks passed. Each Professor Hill 
club had been given detailed instruc- 
tion as to the great attempt. All would 
join in the mental effort necessary to 
accomplishment. Thousands of people 
were being drilled to think the same 
thouglits at precisely the same time. 

And at last — the day. 

Jerry found that he had lost his ap- 
petite. He thought constantly of what 
lay ahead. In the bustle of preparation 
that went on in the assembly room — he 
was urged to rest ! He saw the last 
great pane of glass fitted into the par- 
tition which was to divide the newsmen 
and noise from himself and the chosen 
hundred who were to occupy the otlier 
end of the room. He saw the bedlike 



platform on which he was to lie moved 
into place. 

His nervousness increased until his 
brain was racing feverishly as he 
watched the students file slowly into 
their seats and sit thoughtfully, wait- 
ing. He was conscious of walking 
slowly to the platform, -of seeing the 
newsmen gathering on the opposite side 
of the partition. 

He had been trained to the utmost 
degree of sensitivity to the action of 
combined thought. His head ached 
from the condensed learning it had ab- 
sorbed in the short period of three 
w'eeks. But he was ready. He could 
think prescribed thoughts without ef- 
fort, blanking out all other impressions, 
until he could live like an automaton in 
a dream world. 

As the clock slowly approached the 
zero hour, news cameras began to grind, 
recording every action through the glass 
screen. They pictured the hasty, blush- 
ing kiss planted on Jerry’s lips by Helen 
as she turned away ; the professor clasp- 
ing Jerry’s hand in farewell. 

Everything was ready. All noise 
stopped. There didn’t seem to be a 
sound within miles as Jerry lay back 
and closed his eyes to concentrate on 
reception of thought. The clicking of 
the news cameras could not be heard 
through the partition. The clock 
reached the hour. A faint gong sounded 
the time. 

The papers came out with glaring 
headlines : 

PROFESSOR HILL’S 

EXPERIMENT A SUCCESS 

Jerry Moore had disappeared into 
thin air after forty-five minutes of con- 
centration by the followers of Profes- 
sor Abelard Hill ! The newsreels pic- 
tured him until the moment when the 
platform was suddenly empty. 

But the professor himself was not to 



104 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



be seen ! The outside world did not 
know it, but he was worried. He con- 
fided in Helen after several hours of tor- 
tured effort. 

“I didn’t try to place him in any set 
part of the world,” he told her. “We 
forgot everything except moving him 
from this place to some distant spot. 
We thought only of distance. It was a 
terrible blunder. It will be very diffi- 
cult for the groups to concentrate when 
he is not here. I don’t know how to 
undo the mistake. Perhaps you, know- 
ing the situation as well as I, can help 
me find a solution. There must be 
some way.” 

This was a shock. Helen pictured 
the possibilities. Suppose he had re- 
appeared in mid-ocean ! 

JERRY opened his eyes. It seemed 
as if he had traveled a great distance. 
He felt tired and hungry. His bones 
ached as if they had been bruised. 

His surroundings were strange. A 
gray mist clouded everything. He could 
see only a few feet in any direction. 
What part of the world could he be in? 
It was as gloomy as a London fog on a 
dark night. He got to his feet, but 
stumbled when he tried to walk. 

The ground was uneven. It seemed 
to sink under his feet, like sponge rub- 
ber. It was an effort to walk at all, 
and he soon sat down. The ground 
wasn’t damp. He wasn’t on a swamp. 
But what else would sink that way? 

He was hungry. He knew from the 
feeling that hours had passed while he 
lay unconscious. Thoughts seemed to 
run in series through his brain, without 
rhyme or reason. It interested him. 
He tried to form a picture from them, 
but nothing came clear. 

There was a peculiar feeling in his 
head, as if his brain had suddenly come 
to life. It was uncanny. He began to 
fear the experiment had left a peculiar 
twist there. Perhaps he was insane. 
How could he tell? Maybe the sur- 



roundings were natural. It might be 
he that was different. He pinched him- 
self, as if that would tell the state of 
his mind. Was it imagination, or did 
the bruised flesh fail to hurt the way 
it should? 

There was no feeling of discomfort in 
the foggy surroundings. The tempera- 
ture was normal for a man to live in. 
In fact, it was hard to tell what the at- 
mosphere was. It seemed part of th.e 
scheme of things. The surroundings 
seemed out of place, yet strangely natu- 
ral. 

He felt a vague uneasiness about ev- 
erything. As if he should worry about 
something, but couldn’t place it. What 
was there to worry about? Was some 
one lost? It seemed so, but how would 
he know? Why should it affect him? 

He got up again. There must be 
some object he could recognize. If 
only there were a tree or bush near, he 
wouldn’t feel so alone. But they didn’t 
belong here. He felt it. They would 
be in an alien environment. 

Conflicting thoughts made his head 
swim. Why was everything wrong? 
There must be some place within walk- 
ing distance, which would straighten 
them out. He forged steadily ahead, 
but there was no change. The ground 
remained slightly uneven and gave at 
each step, his feet sin'xing several inches. 
It almost seemed as if it hurt him when 
he stepped on the surface, as if — he 
laughed a short, frightened laugh — as if 
he were walking on the convolutions of 
his own brain ! Certainly the experi- 
ence of the last few hours had unbal- 
anced his mind. 

After an hour’s wandering, without 
change in the ground, hope began to 
fade. It took effort to move at all, and 
his strength was failing. When he 
stumbled and fell he lay racked by de- 
spair for a long time, then dropped into 
deep slumber. 

Hours later, or even days, it was im- 
possible to tell, he opened his eyes. 



ORIGIN OF THOUGHT 



105 



Everything was still the same : soft 
ground covered with heavy mist. A 
gray ghost of light seemed spread 
through the fog, but not enough to see 
more than a few feet. Perhaps he had 
slept through the period of daylight. 
The hopeless feeling began to creep 
over him again. 

He was ravenously hungry now. 
Food was important. But where could 
he find anything to eat in the ghost 
land? There certainly were no people 
living under such conditions. Possibly 
some kind of life might exist. Perhaps 
there was dangerous life, hidden by the 
curtain of mist. He could be attacked 
before he knew anything was near. 

STRANGELY, he felt close to places 
he’d always known, yet a great distance 
away. It seemed as if he might reach 
out and touch familiar objects. Helen 
seemed to hang in the background, at 
times closer than others. The profes- 
sor was close as well, and Jerry turned 
his head, half expecting to see him. 

He got to his feet again, to lurch 
forward, staggering at every step. It 
was doubly hard to keep a footing now. 
He laughed. He was paid for his time, 
but what a way to earn money ! Food 
— when he found some he’d put any 
one to shame who had ever eaten a 
meal. 

When every ounce of strength was 
exhausted he sank to the ground. What 
was the use? He’d landed somewhere, 
and there was no returning. He was 
in a land of nightmare. 

On the verge of delirium an insane 
idea obsessed him. If he couldn’t have 
food and drink, at least he could imagine 
how a good meal would look and taste. 
It struck his fancy, and he slowly built 
up a mental picture of the best meal he 
could remember, even to a glass and 
water bottle. 

His mind ran on, the picture was 
built to the finest detail, tablecloth, nap- 
kin, silverware, and every dish filled 



with steaming food. The water jug was 
the most inviting, he reached out a 
hand and touched it. He could feel it. 
The water poured into the glass with a 
tinkle. He raised it to his lips and 
drank. It wet his parched throat. And 
Jerry, sure that he was mad, continued 
his act. 

Slowly the meal was consumed, from 
soup to dessert. The roast chicken was 
delicious. Almost, he was ashamed of 
the way he ate. Before he had swal- 
lowed the last mouthful he had drunk 
six glasses of wafer. Then coffee ended 
the perfect meal. A cigarette followed 
and he blew out a cloud of smoke. 

The picture faded as he no longer 
held his mind on the food. The mist 
began to seep into his consciousness 
again. Instead of cigarette smoke he 
saw fog before his face. It was the 
breaking up of a perfect dream. His 
eyes were wide open now. Nothing had 
changed. 

He sat up in wonder. He was no 
longer hungry! The craving was en- 
tirely gone. There was no thirst. His 
mouth was moist, as if he’d just taken 
a fresh drink! If a dream could do 
that ? 

He wondered if he was fully awake? 
Was he crazy? There was something 
wrong. He lay down hungry and 
thirsty, to think about a meal. Now he 
felt as though he’d eaten. It was im- 
possible! Yet there remained no de- 
sire for food. If he was crazy, it was 
more comfortable than being hungry. 
He never wanted to be sane again. At 
least, not in this part of the world. 

The ground was soft, but a bed would 
feel nicer. He tried another experiment. 
A hotel room where he’d spent many 
nights came slowly into mind. It was 
quite a job to bring every detail into 
the main thought, so he stopped trying 
and just thought of the bed. That was 
much easier, and he could almost feel 
the soft comfort of clean sheets. 

It was difficult to hold the picture 



106 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



steady. Every time he dozed otf it 
started to disappear. He would have 
to wake up and rebuild the picture; but 
each time it required less effort. Finally 
he dropped into sound slumber, the bed 
forgotten. 

PROFESSOR HILL changed his 
teachings, imperceptibly. Certain trends 
of thought were eliminated. There was 
no longer any effort to transfer objects. 
All effort was spent in expansion of 
tbe mind within the fields of ordinary 
endeavor. The courses were proving of 
greater value than during the time of 
more radical work. 

He seemed to have lost all interest 
in pHiblicity. The reporters had hard 
work to get even a small statement 
about the disappearance of Jerry Moore. 
They were baffled at the sudden change 
of attitude, but the result was a lot of 
theorizing, on their part, which covered 
more space than a statement would have 
gained. 

The professor was worried. What 
happened to Jerry? Was he still alive? 
He was afraid ; afraid of the power he’d 
unwittingly released. It was uncon- 
trolled. It was beyond control! Once 
put in motion, there was no turning 
back. He, like the man who discovered 
fire, had played with an unknown power. 

The classes continued studying the 
use of the brain, and the power of 
thought. But teaching was restricted. 
They could go so far and no farther. 
Danger of passing beyond the natural 
boundary of sanity was stressed. The 
value of the study was proved by the 
speed with which a person could learn, 
and retain knowledge after a short 
course. The courses became standard 
for preparatory schools. The royalty 
income was great from textbook sale 
alone. 

Publicity and sensationalism were no 
longer necessary to obtain money for 
the work. It was more than self-sup- 
porting. Every cent of profit wa« 



vided. Half the total was set aside, in 
trust for Jerry. If he returned to civi- 
lization there would be a small fortune 
waiting for him. It was all the profes- 
sor could do to right his terrible mis- 
take. 

JERRY AWOKE. The mist was 
still about him as heavy and thick as 
ever. He was hungry again, and slowly 
the memory of the last meal returned. 
He would try it again. 

Suddenly the comfort of the bed im- 
pinged upon his mind. The bed was 
real! He was lying on it! The same 
bed that had stood in the hotel room was 
here in this alien land. His head be- 
gan to swim. There could be no mistake, 
it was the same one in which he’d slept 
several nights in the midst of civiliza- 
tion. A small mar on the headboard 
was there. He’d seen it as he lay in 
this same bed, months before. 

He was dizzy. What could it mean? 
Something was radically wrong. First 
he thought of a meal — and was no longer 
hungry. Now after thinking of the bed 
it was here! True enough it stood 
in the strange surroundings, the legs 
sunk several inches into the ground. 
But it existed! In that moment Jerry 
came close to losing his mind. He knew 
he was crazy. He was seeing things, 
having hallucinations of dreams that 
came true ! 

Lying back on the bed with a groan, 
his mind eased a little. So this was 
how it felt to be out of your mind? 
Even if everything was wrong, he could 
enjoy things as they were. He thought 
of his razor. A shave would feel mighty 
good. His whiskers were getting too 
long for comfort. He could picture his 
outfit back in the civilized world. Ev- 
ery detail stood out. The cabinet — 
where it hung on the wall, with the elec- 
tric bulb lighting the mirror. Ah, it 
would be good to be able to use it. 

He was hungry again, and slowly built 
another nictiire of a meal — this time a 



ORIGIN OF THOUGHT 



107 



little different than the last, but very 
complete. It was easier now. He 
seemed to have found the way to build 
thought pictures, until they could be al- 
most felt. 

The new meal was as enjoyable as 
the last, and as satisfying. There re- 
mained no feeling of hunger afterward. 
At least there was some compensation 
for his surroundings. It wasn’t much 
work to get what he wanted — a thought 
and there it was. 

He was restless and finally swung to 
his feet off the edge of the bed to move 
around, then hesitated. There was the 
shaving cabinet, standing at a slant side 
of him! He rubbed his eyes — it was 
still there! Even the electric bulb over 
the mirror was lighted, casting a radi- 
ance around it. 

For many moments he didn’t move. 
The implication was clear. Everything 
he saw in his mind existed! But there 
was no water, and the cabinet would 
have to stand higher before he could 
use it. 

He tried another experiment. Soon 
the dresser from the hotel room stood 
beside him. A few moments later there 
was a washbowl side of the cabinet. 
When the faucet was turned, water 
flowed ! Hot or cold. He closed his 
eyes again. When he opened them the 
basin and cabinet hung in space, at 
their proper levels. Several times he 
passed his hand beneath them, then com- 
pletely around. There was nothing for 
support — ^yet they hung in position! 

As Jerry was shaving, he decided a 
bath would feel good, and the bathtub 
popped into his mind. When he turned, 
after rubbing his face with a clean towel 
from inside the cabinet — the bathtub 
waited a few feet away. 

This was too much ; he burst out 
laughing. There was a peculiar note in 
his voice. He felt his mind slipping 
and hung on to it desperately. He 
must accept things as they were, must 
not question what took place. He would 



have to control his thoughts. They 
might bring about conditions he didn’t 
want. 

HE Wished he could see Helen 
Hartford. Her face seemed to hang in 
the background somehow unutterably 
desirable. She seemed unhappy, wor- 
ried. Strange! He hadn’t formed that 
view of her in his mind ! Then he saw 
her slim beauty clearly, at the desk in 
the school hall. She looked up, startled ; 
as if something was affecting her, some- 
thing she dreaded, yet vaguely hoped 
for. He wished she were with him. 

Then he jumped. She was standing 
a few feet away, white as a sheet, look- 
ing him straight in the face. She crum- 
pled up in a heap as he ran clumsily to- 
ward her. Carrying her tenderly to the 
bed, he brought water from the bowl 
that hung in space, and bathed her face. 
His shaving mug was the only thing he 
could find to serve as a basin, but it 
would do. 

When she opened her eyes, they were 
filled with wonder as well as fear. He 
crushed her to him impulsively. It was 
an effective way to keep her from look- 
ing around at the crazy pattern of 
things. If she saw what he was slowly 
becoming accustomed to, without being 
told first, it might crack her mind. It 
didn’t seem possible she could wake up 
sane, in the crazy place. After her first 
gasp of surprise she clung to him. 

Carefully, after a few minutes, Jerry 
let her lie back on the bed, and close her 
eyes. Then he began a halting explana- 
tion of conditions and events. It was 
impossible to explain, but he tried. It 
would lessen the shock when she looked 
around her. 

Helen finally peered up at him with 
a peculiar expression in her eyes. When 
the surroundings began to focus, a shade 
of doubt fled across her face. She turned 
her head slowly and looked at the ob- 
jects Jerry had been describing. There 
was fear in her eyes now — fear of the 



108 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



unknown. She turned and buried her 
head in the pillow. 

When, after a long time, she looked 
up again the sight of Jerry seemed re- 
assuring. Resolutely she sat up and 
turned to sit on the edge of the bed be- 
side him. It was a battle to accept the 
facts as they were, but she fought, and 
slowly the unbelief left her eyes to be 
replaced by curiosity and interest. 

When she said she was hungry, Jerry 
ordered a meal — if it could be called or- 
dering. He concentrated on dishes, 
food, and a table and chairs. When 
he pulled his mind back, to the present 
— the meal stood before them. 

Here was a meal he could enjoy with 
the realization he was eating, not just 
imagining. After some hesitation, Helen 
felt of the chairs, then sat down. 

It was a strange meal, in a strange 
place. To Helen it was a nightmare, 
but she forced food down her throat. 
Jerry enjoyed every mouthful. It was 
a delight to have some one sitting across 
from him. The feeling of being alone 
in the universe was gone. 

FROM HELEN he learned of the 
professor’s fear and uncertainty. He 
dreaded the words — but the sound of a 
human voice made up for a great deal. 
His brain sought for a solution as she 
talked. 

“Helen,” he asked finally, “try to 
concentrate on bringing some object 
here to you from your desk. I want 
to learn as much as I can, fast. Five 
minutes should serve.” 

The girl nodded, and both were silent 
— she concentrating, Jerry watching her. 
Fifteen minutes passed before she looked 
up. There were tears in her eyes. 

“It’s no use, Jerry. It’s queer. You 
have gained power, dangerous power, 
but it is yours alone. You brought me 
over. You can send me back, perhaps. 
But the power is yours, not mine.” 

Jerry was startled. This was a new, 
unsettling idea. Perhaps he had stum- 



bled on some terrific force which could 
accomplish what another person could 
not. He pulled his mind out of a tail- 
spin as he realized that the girl was 
speaking again. 

“Why don’t you experiment by send- 
ing these things back?” She waved her 
hand at the heterogeneous furnishings 
of empty space. “You had been gone 
over a week before you drew me across, 
Jerry. Time is out of joint here. I 
may have been here a day — or three 
days.” 

Jerry was silent for a while. He 
thought back over the sequence of 
events. Was it possible he held locked 
in some secret corner of his brain the 
power to get them back to Earth? He 
didn’t know, but her suggestion as to 
the bed sounded reasonable. 

She had told him that the bed actu- 
ally disappeared from the hotel, and had 
created a near panic by its mysterious 
disappearance. If he could return it 
there was hope. 

“I’m going to try,” he said slowly, 
“and if we make it, I think I’ll have 
to marry you, beautiful.” 

SLOWLY the Earthly furniture dis- 
appeared in the gray fog. One at a 
time Jerry concentrated on the objects 
around them, until the two people stood 
alone in the whirling mists. Their feet 
and ankles were sunk into the surface 
several inches, as they clasped hands. 
It was hard to take the last step. Jerry 
could get her back to Earth, but how 
about himself? It might mean separa- 
tion forever. His power might not be 
sufficiently ego centric to force his own 
transference through the thought waves. 

“As soon as you get back, Helen, ask 
the professor to have every one in the 
school concentrate on my return. It 
might make the difference between suc- 
cess and failure. I’m going to send you 
back now, confident that you’ll get there 
— and hope that you go through all 



ORIGIN OF THOUGHT 



109 



right. Maybe I’ll see you again — 
good-by.” 

He turned away and after a moment’s 
concentration turned back — she was no 
longer with him ! An ache in his throat 
seemed to block his breathing. Then 
he caught hold of himself and thought 
of moving, of reappearing where he had 
been in the classroom. 

A long time seemed to pass. He felt 
a sensation of dizziness, of falling. Then 
faintness overcame him for an instant. 
When it passed he opened his eyes. 

He was lying on the platform, in the 
assembly room. Faces peered at him 
as if he were a ghost. Professor Hill 
was wiping the perspiration from his 
forehead nervously. Slowly Jerry got 
to his feet; and the students fled like 
scared rabbits. He laughed as he 
watched them go. “All paying custom- 
ers at that, professor. You better go 
after them.” Jerry was himself again. 

“Don’t joke, Jerry! Don’t! Thank 
Heaven you’re alive. Helen has Ijeen 
here two days ! She told me enough so 
I know that you reached the origin of 
thought ! You could have destroyed the 
Earth, could have created new galaxies ! 
You showed marvelous self-control. 
Had you raved — ^your anger would have 
brought horrible catastrophe to Earth 
” His voice grew hoarse. 

“Jerry, promise you won’t say a word 
about what happened ! Let me give 
some explanation. They wouldn’t be- 
lieve you anyway, and it’s best that no 
one knows what happened. I went too 



far, but it’ll never happen again. I’ve 
changed all the courses. I’ll never again 
teach advanced thinking. What you 
learned must be forgotten, for the good 
of humanity. The furniture reappeared 
as strangely as it vanished. The police 
are half crazy trying to solve the riddle, 
but they’ll forget. 

“You and Helen and I are the only 
ones who know, and we must never 
hint.” 

“Oh, all right, professor — where is 
Helen now?” 

A noise made him turn, and she was 
there. “Helen! You have forgotten, 
haven’t you?” 

“No, Jerry, I haven’t.” 

Jerry found he had quite a little 
money. He didn’t want to use it, but 
fortunately Helen persuaded him to take 
it as a precaution in case things went 
wrong. 

The income from the school faded 
fast as the tales of the astounded crow( 
of students went the rounds. The pa 
pers turned their most vicious Imrbs on 
Abelard Hill as the faker who perpe- 
trated the greatest hoax of all time on 
tlie public. 

They saw the storm coming — the 
three who knew — and smiled grimly. 
Jerry suggested the mountains for at 
least a year, and added. “How about 
it, beautiful, are you going to marry the 
great exi^eriment ?” 

Helen nodded and smiled, “Of course ! 
Do you think I want to miss the trip to 
the mountains?” 





THE SHADOW 

A brilliant science-fiction word 
picture — complete in this issue 

by H. P. LOVECRAFT 



4FTER twenty-two years of night- 
i-K mare and terror, saved only by 
-t- -4. a desperate conviction of the 
mythical source of certain impressions, 
I am unwilling to vouch for the truth 
of that which I think I found in West- 
ern Australia on the night of July 17- 
18, 1935. There is reason to hope that 
my experience was wholly or partly an 
hallucination — for which, indeed, abun- 
dant causes existed. And yet, its realism 
was so hideous that I sometimes find 
hop>e impossible. 

If the thing did happen, then man 
must be prepared to accept notions of 
the cosmos, and of his own place in 
the seething vortex of time, whose mer- 
est mention is paralyzing. He must, 
too, be placed oii guard against a specific, 
lurking peril which, though it will never 
engulf the whole race, may impose mon- 
strous and unguessable horrors upon 
certain venturesome members of it. 

It is for this latter reason that I urge, 
with all the force of my being, a final 
abandonment of all the attempts at un- 
earthing those fragments of unknown, 
primordial masonry which my expedi- 
tion set out to investigate. 

Assuming that I was sane and awake, 
my experience on that night was such 
as has befallen no man before. It was, 
moreover, a frightful confirmation of 
all I had sought to dismiss as myth and 
dream. Mercifully there is no proof, 
for in' my fright I lost the awesome ob- 
ject which would — if real and brought 
out of that noxious abyss — have formed 
irrefutable evidence. 



When I came upon the horror I was 
alone — and I have up to now told no 
one about it. I could not stop the others 
from digging in its direction, but chance 
and the shifting sand have so far saved 
them from finding it. Now I must 
formulate some definitive statement — 
not only for the sake of my own mental 
balance, but to warn such others ' as 
may read it seriously. 

These pages — much in whose earlier 
parts will be familiar to close readers 
of tbe general and scientific press — are 
written in the cabin of the ship that 
is bringing me home. I shall give them 
to my son. Professor Wingate Peaslee 
of Miskatonic University — the only 
member of my family who stuck to me 
after my queer amnesia of long ago, 
and the man best informed on the inner 
facts of my case. Of all living persons, 
he is least likely to ridicule what I shall 
tell of that fateful night. 

I did not enlighten him orally before 
sailing, because I think he had better 
have the revelation in written form. 
Reading and rereading at leisure will 
leave with him a more convincing pic- 
ture than my confused tongue could 
hope to convey. 

He can do anything that he thinks 
best with this account — showing it, with 
suitable comment, in any quarters where 
it will be likely to accomplish good. It 
is for the sake of such readers as are 
unfamiliar with the earlier phases of 
my case that I am prefacing the revela- 
tion itself with a fairly ample summary 
of its background. 



OUT OF TIME 







112 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



MY NAME is Nathaniel Wingate 
Peaslee, and those who recall the news- 
paper tales of a generation back — or 
the letters and articles in psychological 
journals six or seven years ago — will 
know who and what I am. The press 
was filled with the details of my strange 
amnesia in 1908-13, and much was made 
of the traditions of horror, madness, 
and witchcraft which lurked behind the 
ancient Massachusetts town then and 
now forming my place of residence. Yet 
I would have it known that there is 
nothing whatever of the mad or sinister 
in my heredity and early life. This is 
a highly important fact in view of the 
shadow which fell so suddenly upon me 
from outside sources. 

It may be that centuries of dark 
brooding had given to crumbling, whis- 
per-haunted Arkham a peculiar vulner- 
ability as regards such shadows — though 
even this seems doubtful in the light 
of those other cases, which I later came 
to study. But the chief point is that 
my own ancestry and background are 
altogether normal. What came, came 
from somewhere else — where, I even 
now hesitate to assert in plain words. 

I am the son of Jonathan and Hannah 
(Wingate) Peaslee, both of wholesome 
old Haverhill stock. I was born and 
reared in Haverhill — at the old home- 
stead in Boardman Street near Golden 
Hill — and did not go to Arkham till I 
entered Miskatonic University as in- 
structor of political economy in 1895. 

For thirteen years more my life ran 
smoothly and happily. I married Alice 
Keezar of Haverhill in 1896, and my 
three children, Robert, Wingate and 
Hannah were born in 1898. 1900, and 
1903, respectively. In 1898 I became 
an associate professor, and in 1902 a 
full professor. At no time had I the 
least interest in either occultism or ab- 
normal psychology. 

It was on Thursday, May 14, 1908, 
that the queer amnesia came. The thing 
was quite sudden, though later I real- 



ized that certain brief, glimmering 
visions of several hours previous — 
chaotic visions which disturbed me 
greatly because they were so unpre- 
cedented — must have formed premoni- 
tory symptoms. My head was aching, 
and I had a singular feeling — altogether 
new to me — that some one else was try- 
ing to get possession of my thoughts. 

The collapse occurred about 10:20 
a. m., while I was conducting a class in 
Political Economy VI — history and 
present tendencies of economics — for 
juniors and a few sophomores. I be- 
gan to see strange shapes before my 
eyes, and to feel that I )vas in a gro- 
tesque room other than the classroom. 

My thoughts and speech wandered 
from my subject, and the students saw 
that something was gravely amiss. Then 
I slumped down, unconscious, in my 
chair, in a stupor from which no one 
could arouse me. Nor did my rightful 
faculties again look out upon the day- 
light of our normal world for five years, 
four months, and thirteen days. 

It is, of course, from others that I 
have learned what followed. I showed 
no sign of consciousness for sixteen and 
a half hours, though removed to my 
home at 27 Crane Street, and given the 
best of medical attention. 

At 3 a. m. May 15th my eyes opened 
and I began to speak, but before long 
the doctors and my family were thor- 
oughly frightened by the trend of my 
expression and language. It was clear 
that I had no remembrance of my iden- 
tity and my past, though for some rea- 
son I seemed anxious to conceal this 
lack of knowledge. My eyes gazed 
strangely at the persons around me, and 
the flections of my facial muscles were 
altogether unfamiliar. 

EVEN my speech seemed awkward 
and foreign. I used my vocal organs 
clumsily and gropingly, and my diction 
had a curiously stilted quality, as if I 
had laboriously learned the English lan- 

AST— 7 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



113 



guage from books. The pronunciation 
was barbarously alien, whilst the idiom 
seemed to include both scraps of curious 
Archaism and expressions of a wholly 
incomprehensible cast. 

Of the latter, one in particular was 
very potently — even terrifiedly — recalled 
by the youngest of the physicians twenty 
years afterward. For at that late period 
such a phrase began to have an actual 
currency — first in England and then in 
the United States — and though of much 
complexity and indisputable newness, 
it reproduced in every least particular 
the mystifying words of the strange 
Arkham patient of 1908. 

Physical strength returned at once, al- 
though I required an odd amount of re- 
education in the use of my hands, legs, 
and bodily apparatus in general. Be- 
cause of this and other handicaps in- 
herent in the mnemonic lapse, I was 
for some time kept under strict medical 
care. 

When I saw that my attempts to con- 
ceal the lapse had failed, I admitted it 
openly, and became eager for informa- 
tion of all sorts. Indeed, it seemed to 
the doctors that I lost interest in my 
proper personality as soon as I found 
the case of amnesia accepted as a natural 
thing. 

They noticed that my chief efforts 
were to master certain points in 
history, science, art, language, and folk- 
lore — some of them tremendously ab- 
struse, and some childishly simple — 
which remained, very oddly in many 
cases, outside my consciousness. 

At the same time they noticed that 
I had an inexplicable command of many 
almost unknown sorts of knowledge — 
a command which I seemed to wish to 
hide rather than display. I would in- 
advertently refer, with casual assurance, 
to specific events in dim ages outside 
the range of accepted history — passing 
off such references as a jest when I saw 
the surprise they created. And I had a 

AST-8 



way of speaking of the future which 
two or three times caused actual fright. 

These uncanny flashes soon ceased to 
appear, though some observers laid their 
vanishment more to a certain furtive 
caution on my part than to any waning 
of the strange knowledge behind them. 
Indeed, I seemed anomalously avid to 
absorb the speech, customs, and per- 
spectives of the age around me; as if 
I were a studious traveler from a far, 
foreign land. 

As soon as permitted, I haunted the 
college library at alt hours ; and shortly 
began to arrange for those odd travels, 
and special courses at American and 
European Universities, which evoked so 
much comment during the next few 
years. 

I did not at any time suffer from a 
lack of learned contacts, for my case 
had a mild celebrity among the psy- 
chologists of the period. I was lectured 
upon as a typical example of secondary 
personality — even though I seemed to 
puzzle the lecturers now and then with 
some bizarre symptom or some queer 
trace of carefully veiled mockery. 

Of real friendliness, however, I en- 
countered little. Something in my aspect 
and speech seemed to excite vague fears 
and aversions in every one I met, as if 
I were a being infinitely removed from 
all that is normal and healthful. This 
idea of a black, hidden horror connected 
with incalculable gulfs of some sort of 
distance was oddly widespread and per- 
sistent. 

My own family formed no exception. 
From the moment of my strange waking 
my wife had regarded me with extreme 
horror and loathing, vowing that I was 
some utter alien usurping the body of 
her husband. In 1910 she obtained a 
legal divorce, nor would she ever con- 
sent to see me, even after my return to 
normality in 1913. These feelings were 
shared by my elder son and my small 
daughter, neither of whom I have ever 
seen since. 



114 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



ONLY my second son, Wingate, 
seemed able to conquer the terror and 
repulsion which my change aroused. He 
indeed felt that I was a stranger, but 
though only eight years old held fast 
to a faith that my proper self would 
return. When it did return he sought 
me out, and the courts gave me his 
custody. In succeeding years he helped 
me with the studies to which I was 
driven, and to-day, at thirty-five, he is 
a professor of psychology at Miskatonic. 

But I dp not wonder at the horror I 
caused — for certainly, the mind, voice, 
and facial expression of the being that 
awaked on May 15, 1908, were not those 
of Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee. 

I will not attempt to tell much of 
my life from 1908 to 1913, since read- 
ers may glean all the outward essentials 
— as I largely had to do — from files of 
old newspapers and scientific journals. 

I was given charge of my funds, and 
spent them slowly and on the whole 
wisely, in travel and in study at various 
centers of learning. My travels, how- 
ever, were singular in the extreme, in- 
volving long visits to remote and desolate 
places. 

In 1909 I spent a month in the Hima- 
layas, and in 1911 aroused much atten- 
tion through a camel trip into the un- 
known deserts of Arabia. What hap- 
pened on those journeys I have never 
been able to learn. 

During the summer of 1912 I char- 
tered a ship and sailed in the arctic, 
north of Spitzbergen, afterward showing 
signs of disappointment. 

Later in that year I spent weeks alone 
beyond the limits of previous or subse- 
quent exploration in the vast limestone 
caverns system of western Virginia — 
black labyrinths so complex that no re- 
tracing of fliy steps could even be con- 
sidered. 

My sojourns at the universities were 
marked by abnormally rapid assimila- 
tion, as if the secondary personality had 
an intelligence 'enormously superior to 



my own. I have found, also, that my 
rate of reading and solitary study was 
phenomenal. I could master every de- 
tail of a book merely by glancing over 
it as fast as I could turn the leaves ; 
while my skill at interpreting complex 
figures in an instant was veritably awe- 
some. 

At times there appeared almost ugly 
reports of my power to influence the 
thoughts and acts of others, though I 
seemed to have taken care to minimize 
displays of this faculty. 

Other ugly reports concerned my in- 
timacy with leaders of occultist groups, 
and scholars suspected of connection 
with nameless bands of abhorrent elder- 
world hierophants. These rumors, 
though never proved at the time, were 
doubtless stimulated by the known tenor 
of some of my reading — for the con- 
sultation of rare books at libraries can- 
not be effected sacretly. 

There is tangible proof — in the form 
of marginal notes — that I went minutely 
through such things as the Comte d’Er- 
lette’s Cultes des Goules, Ludvig Prinn’s 
De Vermis Mysteriis, the Unaussprech- 
lichen Kulfen of von Junzt, the surviv- 
ing fragments of the puzzling Book of 
Eibon, and the dreaded N ecronomicon 
of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred. Then, 
■ too, it is undeniable that a fresh and evil 
wave of underground cult activity set in 
about the time of my odd mutation. 

IN THE SUMMER of 1913 I be- 
gan to display signs of ennui and flag- 
ging interest, and to hint to various 
associates that a change might soon be 
expected in me. I spoke of returning 
memories of my earlier life — though 
most auditors judged me insincere, since 
all the recollections I gave were casual, 
and such as might have been learned 
from my old private papers. 

About. the middle of August I re- 
turned to Arkham and reopened my 
long-closed house in Crane Street. Here 
I installed a mechanism of the most 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



115 



"urioivs aspect, constructed piecemeal by 
tlifferent makers of scientific apparatus 
in Europe and America, and guarded 
carefully from the sight of any one in- 
telligent enough to analyze it. 

Those who did see it — a workman, 
a servant, and the new housekeeper — 
say that it was a queer mixture of rods, 
wheels, and mirrors, though only about 
two feet tall, one foot wide, and one 
foot thick. The central mirror was cir- 
cular and convex. All this is borne out 
by such makers of parts as can be lo- 
cated. 

On the evening of Friday, Septem- 
ber 26, I dismissed the housekeeper and 
the maid until noon of the next day. 
Lights burned in the house till late, and 
a lean, dark, curiously foreign-looking 
man called in an automobile. 

It was about one a. m. that the lights 
were last seen. At 2:15 a. m. a police- 
man observed the place in darkness, but 
with the stranger’s motor still at the 
curb. By 4 o’clock the motor was cer- 
tainly gone. 

It v/as at 6 o’clock that a hesitant, 
foreign voice on the telephone asked 
Dr. Wilson to call at my house and 
bring me out of a peculiar faint. This 
call — a long-distance one— was later 
traced to a public booth in the North 
Station in Boston, but no sign of the 
lean foreigner was ever unearthed. 

When the doctor reached my house 
he found me unconscious in the sitting 
room — in an easy-chair with a table 
drawn up before it. On the polished 
table top were scratches showing where 
some heavy object had rested. The 
queer machine was gone, nor was any- 
thing afterward heard of it. Undoubt- 
edly the dark, lean foreigner had taken 
it away. 

In the library grate were abundant 
ashes, evidently left from the burning 
of every remaining scrap of paper on 
which I had vvritten since the advent 
of the amnesia. Dr. Wilson found my 
breathing very peculiar, but after an 



hypodermic injection it became more 
regular. 

■\t 11:15 a. m., September 27th, I 
stirred vigorously, and my hitherto 
masklike face began to show signs of 
expression. Dr. Wilson remarked that 
the expression was not that of my sec- 
ondary personality, but seemed much 
ike that of my normal self. About 11 :30 
I muttered some very curious syllables 
— syllables which seemed unrelated to 
any human speech. I appeared, too, to 
struggle against something. Then, just 
after noon — the housekeeper and the 
maid having meanwhile returned — I be- 
gan to mutter in English : 

“ — of the orthodox economists of that 
period, Jevons typifies the prevailing 
trend toward scientific correlation. His 
attempt to link the commercial cycle of 
prosperity and depression with the 
physical cycle of the solar spots forms 
perhaps the apex of ” 

Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee had come 
back — a spirit in whose time scale it 
was still that Thursday morning in 
1908, with the economics class gazing 
up at the battered desk on the platform. 

II. 

MY REABSORPTION into normal 
life was a painful and difficult process. 
The loss of over five years creates more 
complications than can be imagined, and 
in my case there were countless matters 
to be adjusted. 

What I heard of my actions since 
1908 astonished and disturbed me, but 
I tried to view the rriatter as philosophi- 
cally as I could. At last, regaining cus- 
tody of my second son, Wingate, I set- 
tled down with him in the Crane Street 
house and endeavored to resume my 
teaching — my old professorship having 
been kindly offered me by tbe college. 

I began work with the February 1914 
term, and kept at it just a year. By 
that time I realized how badly my ex- 
perience had shaken me. Though per- 



116 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



fectly sane — I hoped — and with no flaw 
in my original personality, I had not the 
nervous energy of the old days. Vague 
dreams and queer ideas continually 
haunted me, and when the outbreak of 
the World War turned my mind to his- 
tory I found myself thinking of periods 
and events in the oddest possible fashion. 

My conception of time — my ability 
to distinguish between consecutiveness 
and simultaneousness — seemed subtly 
disordered; so that I formed chimerical 
notions about living in one age and cast- 
ing one’s mind all over eternity for 
knowledge of past and future ages. 

The War gave me strange impres- 
sions of remembering some of its far- 
off consequences — as if I knew how it 
was coming out and could look back 
upon it in the light of future informa- 
tion. All such quasi memories were at- 
tended with much pain, and with a feel- 
ing that some artificial psychological 
barrier was set against them. 

When I diffidently hinted to others 
about my impressions, I met with varied 
responses. Some persons looked uncom- 
fortably at me, but men in the mathe- 
matics department spoke of new devel- 
opments in those theories of relativity 
— then discussed only in learned circles 
— which were later to become so fa- 
mous. Dr. Albert Einstein, they said, 
was rapidly reducing time to the status 
of a mere dimension. 

But the dreams and disturbed feelings 
gained on me, so that I had to drop my 
regular work in 1915. Certain of the 
impressions were taking an annoying 
shape — giving me the persistent notion 
that my amnesia had formed some un- 
holy sort of exchange; that the second- 
ary personality had indeed been an in- 
truding force from unknown regions, 
and that my own personality had suf- 
fered displacement. 

Thus I was driven to vague and 
flightful speculations concerning the 
whereabouts of my true self during the 



years that another had held my body. 
The curious knowledge and strange con- 
duct of my body’s late tenant troubled 
me more and more as I learned further 
details from persons, papers, and maga- 
zines. 

Queernesses that had baffled others 
seemed to harmonize terribly with some 
background of black knowledge which 
festered in the chasms of my subcon- 
sciousness. I began to search feverishly 
for every scrap of information bearing 
on the studies and travels of that other 
one during the dark years. 

Not all of my troubles were as semi- 
abstract as this. There were the dreams 
— and these seemed to grow in vividness 
and concreteness. Knowing how most 
would regard them, I seldom mentioned 
them to any one but my son or certain 
trusted psychologists, but eventually I 
commenced a scientific study of other 
cases in order to see how typical or 
nontypical such visions might be among 
amnesia victims. 

My results, aided by psychologists, 
historians, anthropologists, and mental 
specialists of wide experience, and by a 
study that included all records "of split 
personalities from the days of demoniac- 
possession legends to the medically real- 
istic present, at first bothered me more 
than they consoled me. 

I SOON FOUND that my dreams 
had, indeed, no counterpart in the over- 
whelming bulk of true amnesia cases. 
There remained, however, a tiny residue 
of accounts which for years baffled and 
shocked me with their parallelism to 
my own experience. Some of them 
were bits of ancient folklore ; others 
were case histories in the annals of 
medicine ; one or two were anecdotes 
obscurely buried in standard histories. 

It thus appeared that, while my special 
kind of affliction was prodigiously rare, 
instances of it had occurred at long in- 
tervals ever since the beginning of men’s 
annals. Some centuries might contain 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



117 



one, two, or three cases, others none — 
or at least none whose record survived. 

The essence was always the same — 
a person of keen thoughtfulness seized 
with a strange secondary life and lead- 
ing for a greater or lesser period an 
utterly alien existence typified at first 
by vocal and bodily awkwardness, and 
later by a wholesale acquisition of sci- 
entific, historic, artistic, and anthro- 
pological knowledge ; an acquisition car- 
ried on with feverish zest and with a 
wholly abnormal absorptive power. 
Then a sudden return of the rightful 
consciousness, intermittently plagued 
ever after with vague unplaceable 
dreams suggesting fragments of some 
hideous memory elaborately blotted out. 

And the close resemblance of those 
nightmares to my own — even in .some of 
the smallest particulars — left no doubt 
in my mind of their significantly typical 
nature. One or two of the cases had 
an added ring of faint, blasphemous 
familiarity, as if I had heard of them 
before through some cosmic channel 
too morbid and frightful to contemplate. 
In three in.stances there was specific 
mention of such an unknown machine 
as had been in my house before the 
second change. 

Another thing that worried me dur- 
ing my investigation was the somewhat 
greater frequency of cases where a 
brief, elusive glimpse of the typical 
nightmares was afforded to persons not 
visited with well-defined amnesia. 

These persons were largely of 
mediocre mind or less — some so primi- 
tive that they could scarcely be thought 
of as vehicles for abnormal scholarship 
and preternatural mental acquisitions. 
For a second they would be fired with 
alien force — then a backward lapse, and 
a thin, swift-fading memory of unhu- 
man horrors. 

There had been at least three such 
cases during the past half century — one 
only fifteen years before. Had some- 
thing been groping blindly through time 



from some unsuspected abyss in nature? 
Were these faint cases monstrous, sin- 
ister experiments of a kind and author- 
ship utterly beyond sane belief ? 

Such were a few of the formless 
speculations of my weaker hours — 
fancies abetted by myths which my 
studies uncovered. For I could not 
doubt but that certain persistent legends 
of immemorial antiquity, apparently un- 
known to the victims and physicians 
connected with recent amnesia cases, 
formed a striking and awesome elabora- 
tion of memory lapses such as mine. 

OF THE NATURE of the dreams 
and impressions which were growing so 
clamorous I still almost fear to speak. 
They seemed to savor of madness, and 
at times I believed I was indeed going 
mad. Was there a special type of de- 
lusion afflicting those who had suffered 
lapses of memory? Conceivably, the 
efforts of the subconscious mind to fill 
up a perplexing blank with pseudomem- 
ories might give rise to strange imag- 
inative vagaries. 

This, indeed — though an alternative 
folklore theory finally seemed to me 
more plausible — was the belief of many 
of the alienists who helped me in my 
search for parallel cases, and who shared 
my puzzlement at the exact resemblances 
sometimes discovered. 

They did not call the condition true 
insanity, but classed it rather among 
neurotic disorders. My course in try- 
ing to track it down and analyze it, 
instead of vainly seeking to dismiss or 
forget it, they heartily endorsed as cor- 
rect according to the best psychological 
principles. I especially valued the ad- 
vice of such physicians as had studied 
me during my possession by the other 
personality. 

My first disturbances were not visual 
at all, but concerned the more abstract 
matters which I have mentioned. There 
was, too, a feeling of profound and in- 
explicable horror concerning myself. I 



118 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



developed a queer fear of seeing my 
own form, as if my eyes would find it 
something utterly alien and inconceiv- 
ably abhorrent. 

When I did glance down and behold 
the familiar human shape in quiet gray 
or blue clothing, I always felt a curious 
relief, though in order to gain this relief 
I had to conquer an infinite dread. I 
shunned mirrors as much as possible, 
and was always shaved at the barber’s. 

It was a long time before I correlated 
any of these disappointed feelings with 
the fleeting visual impressions which be- 
gan to develop. The first such correla- 
tion had to do with the odd sensation of 
an e.xternal, artificial restraint on my 
memory. 

I felt that the snatches of sight I ex- 
perienced had a profound and terrible 
meaning, and a frightful connection with 
myself, but that some purposeful influ- 
ence held me from grasping that mean- 
ing and that connection. Then came 
that queerness about the element of 
time, and with it desperate efforts to 
place the fragmentary dream glimpses 
in the chronological and spatial pattern. 

The glimpses themselves were at first 
merely strange rather than horrible. I 
would seem to be in an enormous vaulted 
chamber whose lofty stone groinings 
were well nigh lost in the shadows over- 
head. In whatever time or place the 
scene might be, the principle of the arch 
was known as fully and used as exten- 
sively as by the Romans. 

There were colossal, round windows 
and high, arched doors, and pedestals 
or tables each as tall as the height of an 
ordinary room. Vast shelves of dark 
wood lined the walls, holding what 
seemed to be volumes of immense size 
with strange hieroglyphs on their backs. 

The exposed stonework held curious 
carvings, always in curvilinear mathe- 
matical designs, and there were chiseled 
inscriptions in the same characters that 
the huge books bore. The dark granite 
masonry was of a monstrous megalithic 



type, with lines of convex-topped blocks 
fitting the concave-bottomed courses 
which rested upon them. 

There were no chairs, but the tops 
of the vast pedestals were littered with 
books, papers, and what seemed to be 
writing materials — oddly figured jars of 
a purplish metal, and rods with stained 
tips. Tall as the pedestals were, I 
seemed at times able to view them from 
above. On some of them were great 
globes of luminous crystal serving as 
lamps, and inexplicable machines formed 
of vitreous tubes and metal rods. 

The windows were glazed, and lat- 
ticed with stout-looking bars. Though 
I dared not approach and peer out them, 
I could see from where I was the wav- 
ing tops of singular fernlike growths. 
The floor was of massive octagonal 
flagstones, while rugs and hangings were 
entirely lacking. 

LATER, I had visions of sweeping 
through Cyclopean corridors of stone, 
and up and down gigantic, inclined 
planes of the same monstrous masonry. 
There were no stairs anywhere, nor was 
any passageway less than thirty feet 
wide. Some of the structures through 
which I floated must have towered in 
the sky for thousands of feet. 

There were multiple levels of black 
vaults below, and never-opened trap- 
doors, sealed down with metal bands 
and holding dim suggestions of some 
special peril. 

I seemed to be a prisoner, and horror 
hung broodingly over everything I saw. 
I felt that the mocking curvilinear hiero- 
glyphs on the walls would blast my soul 
with their message were I not guarded 
by a merciful ignorance. 

Still later my dreams included vistas 
from the great round windows, and 
from the titanic flat roof, with its curi- 
ous gardens, wide barren area, and high, 
scalloped parapet of stone, to which the 
topmost of the inclined planes led. 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



119 



There were almost endless leagues of 
giant buildings, each in its garden, and 
ranged along paved roads fully two hun- 
dred feet wide. They differed greatly 
in aspect, but few were less than five 
hundred feet square or a thousand feet 
high. Many seemed so limitless that 
they must have had a frontage of sev- 
eral thousand feet, while some shot up 
to mountainous altitudes in the gray, 
steamy heavens. 

They seemed to be mainly of stone 
or concrete, and most of them embodied 
the oddly curvilinear type of masonry 
noticeable in the building that held me. 
Roofs were flat and garden-covered, 
and tended to have scalloped parapets. 
Sometimes there were terraces and 
higher levels, and wide, cleared spaces 
amidst the gardens. The great roads 
held hints of motion, but in the earlier 
visions I could not resolve this im- 
pression into details. 

In certain places I beheld enormous 
dark cylindrical towers which climbed 
far above any of the other structures. 
These appeared to be of a totally unique 
nature and showed signs of prodigious 
age and dilapidation. They were built 
of a bizarre type of square-cut basalt 
masonry, and tapered slightly toward 
their rounded tops. Nowhere in any 
of them could the least traces of win- 
dows or other apertures save huge doors 
be found. I noticed also some lower 
buildings — all crumbling with the 

weathering of aeons — which resembled 
these dark, cylindrical towers in basic 
architecture. Around all these aberrant 
piles of square-cut masonry there hov- 
ered an inexplicable aura of menace and 
concentrated fear, like that bred by the 
sealed trapdoors. 

THE omnipresent gardens were al- 
most terrifying in their strangeness, 
with bizarre and unfamiliar forms of 
vegetation nodding over broad paths 
lined with curiously carven monoliths. 
Abnormally vast fernlike growths pre- 



dominated — some green, and some of a 
ghastly, fungoid pallor. 

Among them rose great spectral things 
resembling Calamites, whose bamboo- 
like trunks towered to fabulous heights. 
Then there were tufted forms like 
fabulous cycads, and grotesque dark- 
green shrubs and trees of coniferous 
aspect. 

Flowers were small, colorless, and 
unrecognizable, blooming in geometrical 
beds and at large among the greenery. 

In a few of the terrace and roof-top 
gardens were larger and more-vivid 
blossoms of almost offensive contours 
and seeming to suggest artificial breed- 
ing. Fungi of inconceivable size, out- 
lines, and colors speckled the scene in 
patterns bespeaking some unknown but 
well-established horticultural tradition. 
In the larger gardens on the ground 
there seemed to be some attempt to pre- 
serve the irregularities of nature, but 
on the roofs there was more selective- 
ness, and more evidences of the topiary 
art. 

The skies were almost always moist 
and cloudy, and sometimes I would seem 
to witness tremendous rains. Once in 
a while, though, there would be glimpses 
of the Sun — which looked abnormally 
large — and of the Moon, whose mark- 
ings held a touch of difference from the 
normal that I could never quite fathom. 
When — very rarely — the night sky was 
clear to any extent, I beheld constella- 
tions which were nearly beyond recog- 
nition. Known outlines were sometimes 
approximated, but seldom duplicated; 
and from the position of the few groups 
I could recognize, I felt I must be in the 
Earth’s southern hemisphere, near the 
Tropic of Capricorn. 

The far horizon was always steamy 
and indistinct, but I could see that great 
jungles of unknown tree ferns, Calam- 
ites, Lepidodendron, and sigillaria lay 
outside the city, their fantastic frontage 
waving mockingly in the shifting vapors. 
Now and then there would be sugges- 



120 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



tions of motion in the sky, but these my 
early visions never resolved. 

By the autumn of 1914 I began to 
have infrequent dreams of strange float- 
ings over the city and through the re- 
gions around it. I saw interminable 
roads through forests of fearsome 
growths with mottled, fluted, and banded 
trunks, and past other cities as strange 
as the one which persistently haunted 
me. 

I saw monstrous constructions of 
black or iridescent stone in glades and 
clearings where perpetual twilight 
reigned, and traversed long causeways 
over swamps so dark that I could tell 
but little of their moist, towering vege- 
tation. 

Once I saw an area of countless miles 
strewn with age-blasted basaltic ruins 
whose architecture had been like that of 
the few windowless, round-topped 
towers in the haunting city. 

And once I saw the sea — a boundless, 
steamy expanse beyond the colossal 
stone piers of an enormous town of 
domes and arches. Great shapeless sug- 
gestions of shadow moved over it, and 
here and there its surface was vexed 
with anomalous spoutings. 

III. 

AS I HAVE SAID, it was not imme- 
diately that these wild visions began to 
hold their terrifying quality. Certainly, 
many persons have dreamed intrinsically 
stranger things — things compounded of 
unrelated scraps of daily life, pictures, 
and reading, and arranged in fantasti- 
cally novel forms by the unchecked 
caprices of sleep. 

For some time I accepted the visions 
as natural, even though I had never be- 
fore been an extravagant dreamer. 
Many of the vague anomalies, I argued, 
must have come from trivial sources 
too numerous to track down ; while 
others seemed to reflect a common text- 
book knowledge of the plants and other 



conditions of the primitive world of a 
hundred and fifty million years ago — 
the world of the Permian or Triassic 
Age. 

In the course of some months, how- 
ever, the element of terror did figure 
with accumulating force. This was 
when the dreams began so unfailingly 
to have the aspect of memories, and 
when my mind began to link them with 
my growing abstract disturbances — the 
feeling of mnemonic restraint, the curi- 
ous impressions regarding time, the 
sense of a loathsome exchange with my 
secondary personality of 1908-13, and, 
considerably later, the inexplicable loath- 
ing of my own person. 

As certain definite details began to 
enter the dreams, their horror increased 
a thousandfold — until by October, 1915, 
I felt I must do something. It was then 
that I began an intensive study of other 
cases of amnesia and visions, feeling that 
I might thereby objectivize my trouble 
and shake clear of its emotional grip. 

However, as before mentioned, the re- 
sult was at first almost exactly opposite. 
It disturbed me vastly to find that my 
dreams had been so closely duplicated; 
especially since some of the accounts 
were too early to admit of any geological 
knowledge — and therefore of any idea 
of primitive landscapes — on the sub- 
jects’ part. 

What is more, many of these accounts 
supplied very horrible details and ex- 
planations in connection with the visions 
of great buildings and jungle gardens — 
and other things. The actual sights and 
vague impressions were bad enough, but 
what was hinted or asserted by some of 
the other dreamers savored of madness 
and blasphemy. Worst of all, my own 
pseudomemory was aroused to wilder 
dreams and hints of coming revelations. 
And yet most doctors deemed my course, 
on the whole, an advisable one. 

I studied psychology systematically 
and under the prevailing stimulu.s my 
son Wingate did the same — his studies 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



121 



leading eventually to his present pro- 
fessorship. In 1917 and 1918 I took 
special courses at Miskatonic. Mean- 
while, my examination of medical, his- 
torical, and anthropological records be- 
came indefatigable, involving travels to 
distant libraries, and finally including 
even a reading of the hideous books 
of forbidden elder lore in which my 
secondary personality had been so dis- 
turbingly interested. 

Some of the latter were the actual 
copies I had consulted in my altered 
state, and I was greatly disturbed by 
certain marginal notations and ostensible 
corrections of the hideous te.xt in a 
script and idiom which somehow seemed 
oddly unhuman. 

These markings were mostly in the 
respective languages of the various 
books, all of which the writer seemed 
to know with equal, though obviously, 
academic facility. One note appended 
to von Junzt’s Unaussprechlichen Kul- 
ten, however, was alarmingly otherwise. 
It consisted of certain curvilinear hiero- 
glyphs in the same ink as that of the 
German corrections, but following no 
recognized human pattern. And these 
hieroglyphs were closely and unmistak- 
ably akin to the characters constantly 
met with in my dreams — characters 
whose meaning I would sometimes mo- 
mentarily fancy I knew, or was just 
on the brink of recalling. 

To complete my black confusion, 
many librarians assured me that, in 
view of previous examinations and rec- 
ords of consultation of the volumes in 
question, all of these notations must 
have been made by myself in my sec- 
ondary state. This despite the fact that 
I was and still am ignorant of three of 
the languages involved. 

PIECING TOGETHER the scat- 
tered records, ancient and modern, an- 
thropological and medical, I found a 
fairly consistent mixture of myth and 
hallucination whose scope and wildness 



left me utterly dazed. Only one thing 
consoled me; the fact that the myths 
were of such early existence. What 
lost knowledge could have brought pic- 
tures of the Paleozoic or Mesozoic- 
landscape into these primitive fables, I 
could not even guess ; but the pictures 
had been there. Thus, a basis e.xisted 
for the formation of a fixed type of 
^delusion. 

Cases of amnesia no douht created 
the general myth pattern — but afterward 
the fanciful accretions of the myths 
must have reacted on amnesia sufferers 
and colored their pseudomemories. I 
myself had read and heard all the early 
tales during my memory lapse — my 
quest had amply proved that. Was it 
not natural, then, for my subsequent 
dreams and emotional impressions to 
become colored and molded by what m)' 
memory subtly held over from my sec- 
ondary state? 

A few of the m)-ths had significant 
connections with other cloudy legends 
of the prehuman world, especially those 
Hindu tales involving stupefying gulfs 
of time and forming part of the lore 
of modern theosophists. 

Primal myth and modern delusion 
joined in their assumption that man- 
kind is only one — perhaps the least — 
of the highly evolved and dominant races 
of this planet’s long and largely un- 
known career. Things of inconceivable 
shape, they implied, had reared great 
towers to the sky and delved into every 
secret of nature before the first am- 
phibian forbear of man had crawled out 
of the hot sea three hundred million 
years ago. 

Some had come down from the stars ; 
a few were as old as the cosmos itself ; 
others had risen swiftly from terranc 
germs rs far behind the first germs of 
our life cycle as those germs are be- 
hind ourselves. Spans of thousands of 
millions of years, and linkages of other 
galaxies and universes, were freely 
spoken of. Indeed, there was no such 



122 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



thing as time in its humanly accepted 
sense. 

But most of the tales and impressions 
concerned a relatively late race, of a 
queer and intricate shape, resembling 
no life form known to science, which 
had lived till only fifty million years 
before the advent of man. This, they 
indicated, was the greatest race of all 
because it alone had conquered the secret 
of time. 

It had learned all things that ever 
were known or ever would be known on 
the Earth, through the power of its 
keener minds to project themselves into 
the past and future, even through gulfs 
of millions of years, and study the lore 
of every age. From the accomplish- 
ments of this race arose all legends of 
prophets, including those in human 
mythology. 

In its vast libraries were volumes of 
texts and pictures holding the whole of 
Earth’s annals — histories and descrip- 
tions of every species that had ever been 
or that ever would be, with full records 
of their arts, their achievements, their 
languages, and their psychologies. 

With this seon-embracing knowledge, 
the Great Race chose from every era 
and life form such thoughts, arts, and 
processes as might suit its own nature 
and situation. Knowledge of the past, 
secured through a kind of mind cast- 
ing outside the recognized senses, was 
harder to glean than knowledge of the 
future. 

In the latter case the course was 
easier and more material. With suitable 
mechanical aid a mind would project 
itself forward in time, feeling its dim, 
extra-sensory way till it approached the 
desired period. Then, after preliminary 
trials, it would seize on the best dis- 
coverable representative of the highest 
of that period’s life forms. It would 
enter the organism’s brain and set up 
therein its own vibrations, while the dis- 
placed mind would strike back to the 
period of the displacer, remaining in the 



latter’s body till a reverse process was 
set up. 

The projected mind, in the body of 
the organism of the future, would then 
pose as a member of the race whose 
outward form it wore, learning as 
quickly as possible all that could be 
learned of the chosen age and its massed 
information and techniques. 

MEANWHILE the displaced mind, 
thrown back to the displacer’s age and 
body, would be carefully guarded. It 
would be kept from harming the body 
it occupied, and would be drained of 
all its knowledge by trained questioners. 
Often it could be questioned in its own 
language, when previous quests into the 
future had brought back records of that 
language. 

If the mind came from a body whose 
■‘.anguage the Great Race could not phys- 
ically reproduce, clever machines would 
be made, on which the alien speech 
could be played as on a musical instru- 
ment. 

The Great Race’s members were im- 
mense rugose cones ten feet high, and 
with head and other organs attached to 
foot-thick, distensible limbs spreading 
from the apexes. They spoke by the 
clicking or scraping of huge paws or 
claws attached to the end of two of 
their four limbs, and walked by the ex- 
pansion and contraction of a viscous 
layer attached to their vast, ten- foot 
bases. 

When the captive mind’s amazement 
and resentment had worn off, and when 
— assuming that it came from a body 
vastly different from the Great Race’s — 
it had lost its horror at its unfamiliar, 
temporary form, it was permitted to 
study its new environment and experi- 
ence a wonder and wisdom approxi- 
mating that of its displacer. 

With suitable precautions, and in ex- 
change for suitable services, it was al- 
lowed to rove all over the habitable 
world in titan airships or on the huge 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



123 



boatlike, atomic-engined vehicles which 
traversed the great roads, and to delve 
freely into the libraries containing rec- 
ords of the planet’s past and future. 

This reconciled many captive minds 
to their lot ; since none were other than 
keen, and to such minds the unveiling 
of hidden mysteries of Earth — closed 
chapters of inconceivable pasts and diz- 
zying vortices of future time which in- 
clude the years ahead of their own 
natural ages — forms always, despite the 
abysmal, horrors often unveiled, the 
supreme experience of life. 

Now and then certain captives were 
permitted to meet other captive minds 
seized from the future — ^to exchange 
thoughts with consciousness living a 
hundred or a thousand or a million years 
before or after their own ages. And 
all were urged to write copiously in their 
own languages of themselves and their 
respective periods, such documents to be 
filed in the great central archives. 

It may be added that there was one 
special type of captive whose privileges 
were far greater than those of the ma- 
jority. These were the dying permanent 
exiles, whose bodies in the future had 
been seized by keen-minded members of 
the Great Race who, faced with death, 
sought to escape mental extinction. 

Such melancholy exiles were not as 
common as might be expected, since the 
longevity of the Great Race lessened its 
love of life — especially among those su- 
perior minds capable of projection. 
From cases of the permanent projection 
of elder minds arose many of those last- 
ing changes of personality noticed in 
later history — including mankind’s. 

As for the ordinary cases of explora- 
tion — when the displacing mind had 
learned what it wished in the future, 
it would build an apparatus like that 
which had started its flight and reverse 
the process of projection. Once more 
it would be in its own body in its own 
age, while the lately captive mind would 



return to that body of the future to 
which it properly belonged. 

Only when one or the other of the 
bodies had died during the exchange was 
this restoration impossible. In such 
cases, of course, the exploring mind had 
— like those of the death escapers — to 
live out an alien-bodied life in the fu- 
ture ; or else the captive mind — like the 
dying permanent exiles — had to end its 
days in the form and past age of the 
Great Race. 

THIS FATE was least horrible when 
the captive mind was also of the Great 
Race — a not infrequent occurrence, since 
in all its periods that race was intensely 
concerned with its own future. The 
number of dying permanent exiles of 
the Great Race was very slight — largely 
because of the tremendous penalties at- 
tached to displacements of future Great 
Race minds by the moribund. 

Through projection, arrangements 
were made to inflict these penalties on 
the offending minds in their new future 
bodies — and sometimes forced reex- 
changes were effected. 

Complex cases of the displacement of 
exploring or already captive minds by 
minds in various regions of the past had 
been known and carefully rectified. In 
every age since the discovery of mind 
projection, a minute but well-recognized 
element of the population consisted of 
Great Race minds from past ages, so- 
journing for a longer or shorter while. 

When a captive mind of alien origin 
was returned to its own body in the 
future, it was purged by an intricate 
mechanical hypnosis of all it had learned 
in the Great Race Age — this because of 
certain troublesome consequences in- 
herent in the general carrying forward 
of knowledge in large quantities. 

The few existing instances of clear 
transmission had caused, and would 
cause at known future times, great dis- 
asters. And it was largely in conse- 



124 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 







Of the animals I saw I could 
write volumes! 

quence of two cases of the kind — said 
the old myths — that mankind had 
learned what it had concerning the Great 
Race. 

Of all things surviving physically and 
directly from that aeon-distant world, 
there remained only certain ruins of 
great stones in far places and under the 
sea, and parts of the text of the fright- 
ful Pnakotic Manuscripts. 

Thus, the returning mind reached its 
own age with only the faintest and most 
fragmentary visions of what it had un- 



dergone since its seizure. All memories 
that could be eradicated ivere eradicated, 
so that in most cases only a dream- 
shadowed blank stretched back to the 
time of the first exchange. Some minds 
recalled more than others, and the 
chance joining of memories had at rare 
times brought hints of the forbidden 
past to future ages. 

There probably never was a time when 
groups or cults did not secretly cherish 
certain of these hints. In the Necro- 
nomicon the presence of such a cult 
among human beings was suggested — 
a cult that sometimes gave aid to minds 
voyaging down the aeons from the days 
of the Great Race. 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



125 




And, meanwhile, the Great Race it- 
self waxed well-nigh omniscient, and 
turned to the task of setting up ex- 
changes with the minds of other planets, 
and of exploring their pasts and futures. 
It sought likewise to fathom the past 
years and origin of that black, aeon- 
dead orb in far space whence its own 
mental heritage had come — for the mind 
of the Great Race was older than its 
bodily form. 

The beings of a dying elder world, 
wise with the ultimate secrets, had 
looked ahead for a new world and 
species wherein they might have long 
life, and had sent their minds en masse 
into that future race best adapted to 



house them — the cone-shaped things 
that {peopled our Earth a billion years 
ago. 

Thus the Great Race came to be, while 
the myriad minds sent backward were 
left to die in the horror of strange 
shapes. Later the race would again face 
death, yet would live through another 
forward migration of its best minds into 
the bodies of others who had a longer 
physical span ahead of them. 

SUCH was the background of inter- 
twined legend and hallucination. When, 
around 1920, I had my researches in 
coherent shape, I felt a slight lessening 
of the tension which their earlier stages 









126 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



had increased. After all, and in spite 
of the fancies prompted by blind emo- 
tions, were not most of my phenomena 
readily explainable? Any chance might 
have turned my mind to dark studies 
during the amnesia — and then I read the 
forbidden legends and met the mem- 
bers of ancient and ill-regarded cults. 
That, plainly, supplied the material for 
the dreams and disturbed feelings which 
came after the return of memory. 

As for the marginal notes in dream 
hieroglyphs and languages unknown to 
me, but laid at my door by librarians — 
I might easily have picked up a smat- 
tering of the tongues during my second- 
ary state, while the hieroglyphs were 
doubtless coined by my fancy from de- 
scriptions in old legends, and afterward 
woven into my dreams. I tried to verify 
certain points through conversations 
with known cult leaders, but never suc- 
ceeded in establishing the right connec- 
tions. 

At times the parallelism of so many 
cases in so many distant ages continued 
to worry me as it had at first, but on 
the other hand I reflected that the 
excitant folklore was undoubtedly more 
universal in the past than in the present. 

Probably all the other victims whose 
cases were like mine had had a long 
and familiar knowledge of the tales I 
had learned only when in my secondary 
state. When these victims had lost 
their memory, they had associated them- 
selves with the creatures of their house- 
hold myths— the fabulous invaders sup- 
posed to displace men’s minds — and had 
thus embarked upon quests for knowl- 
edge which they thought they could take 
back to a fancied, nonhuman past. 

Then, when their memory returned, 
they reversed the associative process and 
thought of - themselves as the former 
captive minds instead of as the dis- 
placers. Hence the dreams and pseudo- 
memories following the conventional 
myth pattern. 

Despite the seeming cumberousness 



of these explanations, they came finally 
to supersede all others in my mind — 
largely because of the greater weakness 
of any rival theory. And a substantial 
number of eminent psychologists and 
anthropologists gradually agreed with 
me. 

The more I reflected, the more con- 
vincing did my reasoning seem; till in 
the end I had a really effective bulwark 
against the visions and impressions 
which still assailed me. Suppose I did 
see strange things at night? These 
were only what I had heard and read 
of. Suppose I did have odd loathings 
and perspectives and pseudomemories? 
These, too, were only echoes of myths 
absorbed in my secondary state. Noth- 
ing that I might dream, nothing that I 
might feel, could be of any actual sig- 
nificance. 

Fortified by this philosophy, I greatly 
improved in nervous equilibrium, even 
though the visions — rather than the ab- 
stract impressions — steadily became 
more frequent and more disturbingly 
detailed. In 1922 I felt able to under- 
take regular work again, and put my 
newly gained knowledge to practical 
use by accepting an instructorship in 
psychology at the university. 

My old chair of political economy had 
long been adequately filled — besides 
which, methods of teaching economics 
had changed greatly since my heyday. 
My son was at this time just entering 
on the post-graduate studies leading to 
his present professorship, and we 
worked together a great deal. 

IV. 

I CONTINUED, however, to keep a 
careful record of the outre dreams which 
crowded upon me so thickly and vividly. 
Such a record, I argued, was of genuine 
value as a psychological document. The 
glimpses still seemed damnably like 
memories, though I fought off this im- 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



127 



pression with a goodly measure of suc- 
cess. 

In writing, I treated the phantasmata 
as things seen ; but at all other times I 
brushed them aside like any gossamer 
illusions of the night. I had never men- 
tioned such matters in common conver- 
sation; though reports of them, filter- 
ing out as such things will, had aroused 
sundry rumors regarding my mental 
health. It is amusing to reflect that 
these rumors were confined wholly to 
laymen, without a single champion 
among physicians or psychologists. 

Of my visions after 1914 I will here 
mention only a few, since fuller ac- 
counts and records are at the disposal 
of the serious student. It is evident that 
with time the curious inhibitions some- 
what waned, for the scope of my visions 
vastly increased. They have never, 
though, become other than disjointed 
fragments seemingly without clear mo- 
tivation. 

Within the dreams I seemed gradu- 
ally to acquire a greater and greater 
freedom of wandering. I floated 
through many strange buildings of stone, 
going from one to the other along mam- 
moth underground passages which 
seemed to form the common avenues of 
transit. Sometimes I encountered those 
gigantic sealed trapdoors in the lowest 
level, around which such an aura of fear 
and forbiddenness clung, 

I saw tremendous tessellated pools, 
and rooms of curious and inexplicable 
utensils of myriad sorts. Then there 
were colossal caverns of intricate ma- 
chinery whose outlines and purpose were 
wholly strange to me, and whose sound 
manifested itself only after many years 
of dreaming. I may here remark that 
sight and sound are the only senses I 
have ever exercised in the visionary 
world. 

The real horror began in May, 1915, 
when I first saw the living things. This 
was before my studies had taught me 
what, in view of the myths and case 



histories, to expect. As mental bar- 
riers wore down, I beheld great masses 
of thin vapor in various parts of the 
building and in the streets below. 

These steadily grew more solid and 
distinct, till at last I could trace their 
monstrous outlines with uncomfortable 
ease. They seemed to be enormous, 
iridescent cones, about ten feet high and 
ten feet wide at the base, and made up 
of some ridgy, scaly, semielastic mat- 
ter. From their apexes projected four 
flexible, cylindrical members, each a 
foot thick, and of a ridgy substance like 
that of the cones themselves. 

These members were sometimes con- 
tracted almost to nothing, and some- 
times extended to any distance up to 
about ten feet. Terminating two of 
them were enormous- claws or nippers. 
At the end of a third were four red, 
trumpetlike appendages. The fourth 
terminated in an irregular yellowish 
globe some two feet in diameter and 
having three great dark eyes ranged 
along its central circumference. 

Surmounting this head were four 
slender gray stalks bearing flowerlike 
appendages, whilst from its nether side 
dangled eight greenish antennae or ten- 
tacles. The great base of the central 
cone was fringed with a rubbery, gray 
substance which moved the whole en- 
tity through expansion and contraction. 

THEIR ACTIONS, though harm- 
less, horrified, me even more than their 
appearance — for it is not wholesome to 
watch monstrous objects doing what 
one had known only human beings to 
do. These objects moved intelligently 
about the great rooms, getting books 
from the shelves and taking them to the 
great tables, or vice versa, and some- 
times writing diligently with a peculiar 
rod gripped in the greenish head ten- 
tacles. The huge nippers were used in 
carrying books and in conversation — 
speech consisting of a kind of clicking 
and scraping. 



128 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



The objects had no clothing, ljut wore 
satchels or knapsacks suspended from 
the top of the conical trunk. They com- 
monly carried their head and its sup- 
porting member at the level of the cone 
top, though it was frequently raised or 
lowered. 

The other three great members tended 
to rest downward at the sides of the 
cone, contracted to about five feet each, 
when not in use. From their rate of 
reading, writing, and operating their 
machines — those on the tables seemed 
somehow connected with thought — I 
concluded that their intelligence was 
enormously greater than man’s. 

Aftemard I saw them everywhere; 
swarming in all the great chambers and 
corridors, tending monstrous machines 
in vaulted crypts, and racing along the 
vast roads in gigantic, boat-shaped cars. 
I ceased to be afraid of them, for they 
seemed to form supremely natural parts 
of their environment. 

Individual differences amongst them 
began to be manifest, and a few ap- 
peared to be under some kind of re- 
straint. These latter, though showing 
no physical variation, had a diversity of 
gestures and habits which marked them 
of! not only from the majority, but very 
largely from one another. 

They wrote a great deal in what 
seemed to my clotidy vision a vast 
variety of characters — never tlie typical 
curvilinear hieroglyphs of the majority. 
A few, I fancied, used our own fa- 
miliar alphabet. Most of them worked 
much more slowly than the general mass 
of the entities. 

All this time my own part in the 
dreams seemed to be that of a disem- 
bodied consciousness with a range of 
vision wider than the normal, floating 
freely about, yet confined to the ordi- 
nary avenues and speeds of travel. Not 
until August, 1915, did any suggestions 
of bodily existence begin to harass me. 
I say harass, because the first phase was 
a jpurely abstract, though infinitely ter- 



rible, association of my previously noted 
body loathing with the scenes of my 
visions. 

For a while my chief concern during 
dreams was to avoid looking down at 
myself, and I recall how grateful I was 
for the total absence of large mirrors 
in the strange rooms. I was mightily 
troubled by the fact that I always saw 
the great tables — whose height could not 
be under ten feet — from a level not be- 
low that of their surfaces. 

And then the morbid temptation to 
look down at myself became greater and 
greater, till one night I could not resist 
it. At first my downward glance re- 
vealed nothing whatever. A moment 
later I perceived that this was because 
my head lay at the end of a flexible 
neck of enormous length. Retracting 
this neck and gazing down very sharply, 
I saw the scaly, rugose, iridescent bulk 
of a vast cone ten feet tall and ten feet 
wide at the base. That was when I 
waked half of Arkham with my scream- 
ing as I plunged madly up from the 
abyss of sleep. 

ONLY after weeks of hideous repeti- 
tion did I grow half reconciled to these 
visions of myself in monstrous form. 
In the dreams I now moved bodily 
among the other unknown entities, read- 
ing terrible books from the endless 
shelves and writing for hours at the 
great tables with a stylus managed by 
the green tentacles that hung down from 
my head. 

Snatches of what I read and wrote 
would linger in my memory. There 
were horrible annals of other worlds and 
other universes, and of stirrings of 
formless life outside of all universes. 
There were records of strange orders 
of beings which had peopled the world 
in forgotten parts, and frightful chroni- 
cles of grotesque-bodied intelligences 
which would people it millions of years 
after the death of the last human being. 

I learned of chapters in human history 

AST-8 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



12 !) 



whose existence no scholar of to-day lias 
ever suspected. Most of these writ- 
ings were in the language of the 
hieroglyphs; which I studied in a queer 
way with the aid of droning machines, 
and which was evidently an agglutinative 
speech with root systems utterly unlike 
any found in human languages. 

Other volumes were in other unknown 
tongues learned in the same queer way. 
A very few were in languages I knew. 
Extremely clever pictures, both inserted 
in the records and forming separate col- 
lections, aided me immensely. And all 
the time I seemed to be setting down 
a history of my own age in English. On 
waking, I could recall only minute and 
meaningless scraps of the unknown 
tongues which my dream self had mas- 
tered, though whole phases of the his- 
tory stayed with me. 

I learned — even before my waking 
self had studied the parallel cases' or 
the old myths from which the dreams 
doubtless sprang — that the entities 
around me were of the world’s greatest 
race, which had conquered time and had 
sent exploring minds into every age. I 
knew, too, that I had been snatched 
from my age while another used my 
body in that age, and that a few of the 
other strange forms housed similarly 
captured minds. I seemed to talk, in 
some odd language of claw clickings, 
with exiled intellects from every corner 
of the solar system. 

There was a mind from the planet 
we know as Venus, which would live 
incalculable epochs to come, and one 
from an outer moon of Jupiter six mil- 
lion years in the past. Of Earthly minds 
there were some from the winged, star- 
headed, half-vegetable race of Paleogean 
Antarctica; one from the reptile people 
of fabled Valusia; three from the furry 
prehuman Hyperborean worshippers of 
Tsathoggua ; one from the wholly abom- 
inable Tcho-Tchos; two from the 
Arachnida denizens of Earth’s last age ; 
five from the hardy Coleopterous 
AST-9 



species immediately following mankind, 
to which the Great Race was some day 
to transfer its keenest minds en masse 
in the face of horrible peril ; and sev- 
eral from different branches of hu- 
manity. 

I talked with the mind of Yiang-Li, 
a philosopher from the cruel empire of 
Tsan-Chan, which is to come in 5,000 
A. D. ; with that of a general of the 
great-headed brown people who held 
South Africa in 50,000 B. C. ; with that 
of a twelfth-century Florentine monk 
named Bartolomeo Corsi ; with that of 
a king of Lomar who had ruled that 
terrible polar land one hundred thousand 
years before the squat, yellow Inutos 
came from the west to engulf it. 

I talked with the mind of Nug-Soth, 
a magician of the dark conquerors of 
16,000 A. D. ; with that of a Roman 
named Titus Sempronius Blaesus, who 
had been a quaestor in Sulla’s time; 
with that of Khephnes, an Egyptian of 
the 14th Dynasty, who told me the 
hideous secret of Nyarlathotep ; with 
that of a priest of Atlantis’ middle king- 
dom ; with that of a Suffolk gentleman 
of Cromwell’s day, James Woodville. 
Also, with that of a court astronomer 
of pre-Inca Peru ; with that of the Aus- 
tralian physicist Nevil Kingston-Brown, 
who will die in 2,518 A. D. ; with that 
of the archimage of vanished Yhe in the 
Pacific ; with that of Theodotides, a 
Graeco-Bactrian official of 200 B. C. ; 
with that of an aged Frenchman of 
Louis XIII’s time named Pierre-Louis 
Montagny; with that of Crom-Ya, a 
Cimmerian chieftain of 15,000 B. C. ; 
and with so many others that my brain 
can not hold the shocking secrets and 
dizzying marvels I learned from them. 

I AWAKENED each morning in a 
fever, sometimes frantically trying to 
verify or discredit such information as 
fell within the range of modern human 
knowledge. Traditional facts took on 
new and doubtful aspects, and I mar- 



130 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



veled at the dream fancy which could 
invent such surprising addenda to his- 
tory and science. 

I shivered at the mysteries the past 
may conceal, and trembled at the men- 
aces the future may bring forth. What 
was hinted in the speech of post-human 
entities of the fate of mankind produced 
such an effect on me that I will not 
set it down here. 

After man there would be the mighty 
beetle civilization, the bodies of whose 
members the cream of the Great Race 
would seize when the monstrous doom 
overtook the elder world. Later, as the 
Earth’s span closed, the transferred 
minds would again migrate through 
time and space — to another stopping 
place in the bodies of the bulbous vege- 
table entities of Mercury. But there 
would be races after them, clinging 
pathetically to the cold planet and bur- 
rowing to its horror-filled core, before 
the utter end, 

Meanwhile, in my dreams, I wrote 
endlessly in that history of my own 
age which I was preparing — half volun- 
tarily and half through promises of in- 
creased library and travel opportunities 
— for the Great Race’s central archives. 
The archives were in a colossal subter- 
ranean structure near the city’s center, 
which I came to know well through fre- 
quent labors and consultations. Meant 
to last as long as the race, and to with- 
stand the fiercest of Earth’s convulsions, 
this titan repository surpassed all other 
buildings in the massive, mountainlike 
firmness of its construction. 

The records, written or printed on 
great sheets of a curiously tenacious cel- 
lulose fabric, were bound into books that 
opened from the top, and were kept in 
individual cases of a strange, extremely 
light rustless metal of grayish hue, deco- 
rated with mathematical designs and 
bearing the title in the Great Race’s 
curvilinear hieroglyphs. 

These cases were stored in tiers of 
rectanguar vaults — like closed, locked 



shelves — wrought of the same rustless 
metal and fastened by knobs with in- 
tricate turnings. My own history was 
assigned a specific place in the vaults of 
the lowest -or vertebrate level — the sec- 
tion devoted to the cultures of mankind 
and of the furry, reptilian races imme- 
diately preceding it in Terrestrial domi- 
nance. 

But none of the dreams ever gave me 
a full picture of daily life. All were 
the merest misty, disconnected frag- 
ments, and it is certain that these frag- 
ments were not unfolded in their right- 
ful sequence. I have, for example, a 
very imperfect idea of my own living 
arrangements in the dream world ; 
though I seem to have possessed a great 
stone room of my own. My restrictions 
as a prisoner gradually disappeared, so 
that some of the visions included vivid 
travels over the mighty jungle roads, 
sojourns in strange cities, and explora- 
tions of some of the vast, dark, window- 
less ruins from which the Great Race 
shrank in curious fear. There were also 
long sea voyages in enormous, many- 
decked boats of incredible swiftness, and 
trips over wild regions in closed, pro- 
jectilelike airships lifted and moved by 
electrical repulsion. 

Beyond the wide, warm ocean were 
other cities of the Great Race, and on 
one far continent I saw the crude vil- 
lages of the black-snouted, winged crea- 
tures who would evolve as a dominant 
stock after the Great Race had sent its 
foremost minds into the future to escape 
the creeping horror. Flatness and 
exuberant green life were always the 
keynote of the scene. Hills were low 
and sparse, and usually displayed signs 
of volcanic forces. 

OF THE ANIMALS I saw, 1 could 
write volumes. All were wild ; for the 
Great Race’s mechanized culture had 
long since done away with domestic 
beasts, while food was wholly vegetable 
or synthetic. Clumsy reptiles of great 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



131 



bulk floundered in steaming morasses, 
fluttered in the heavy air, or spouted in 
the seas and lakes; and among these I 
fancied I could vaguely recognize 
lesser, archaic prototypes of many forms 
— Dinosauria, Pterodactyls, Ichthyo- 
sauria, Lahyrinthodonta, Plesiosauri, 
and the like — made familiar through 
paleontology. Of birds or mammals 
there were none that I could discover. 

The ground and swamps were con- 
stantly alive with snakes, lizards, and 
crocodiles, while insects buzzed inces- 
santly among the lush vegetation. And 
far out at sea, unspied and unknown 
monsters spouted mountainous columns 
of foam into the vaporous sky. Once 
I was taken under the ocean in a gigantic 
submarine vessel with searchlights, and 
glimpsed some living horrors of awe- 
some magnitude. I saw also the ruins 
of incredible sunken cities, and the 
wealth of orinoid, brachiopod, coral, 
and ichthyic life which everywhere 
abounded. 

Of the physiology, psychology', folk- 
ways, and detailed history of the Great 
Race my visions preserved but little in- 
formation, and many of the scattered 
points I here set down were gleaned 
from my study of old legends and other 
cases rather than from my own dream- 
ing. 

For in time, of course, my reading 
and research caught up with and passed 
the dreams in many phases, so that cer- 
tain dream fragments were explained 
in advance and formed verifications of 
what I had learned. This consolingly 
established my belief that similar read- 
ing and research, accomplished by my 
secondary self, had formed the source 
of the whole terrible fabric of pseudo- 
memories. 

The period of my dreams, apparently, 
was one somewhat less than 150,000,000 
years ago, when the Paleozoic Age was 
giving place to the Mesozoic Age. The 
bodies occupied by the Great Race rep- 
resented no surviving — or even scien- 



tifically known — line of Terrestrial 
evolution, but were of a peculiar, closely 
homogeneous, and highly specialized or- 
ganic type inclining as much to the 
vegetable as to the animal state. 

Cell action was of an unique sort al- 
most precluding fatigue, and wholly 
eliminating the need of sleep. Nourish- 
ment, assimilated through the red 
trumpetlike appendages on one of the 
great flexible limbs, was always semi- 
fluid and in many aspects wholly unlike 
the food of existing animals. 

The beings had but two of the senses 
which we recognize — sight and hearing, 
the latter accomplished through the 
flowerlike appendages on the gray stalks 
above their heads. Of other and in- 
comprehensible senses — not, however, 
well utilizable by alien captive minds 
inhabitating their bodies — they pos- 
sessed many. Their three eyes were so 
situated as to give them a range of 
vision wider than the normal. Their 
blood was a sort of deep-greenish ichor 
of great thickness. 

They had no sex, but reproduced 
through seeds or spores which clustered 
on their bases and could be developed 
only under water. Great, shallow tanks 
were used for the growth of their young 
— which were, however, reared only in 
small numbers on account of the 
longevity of individuals — four or five 
thousand years being the common life 
span. 

Markedly defective individuals were 
quickly disposed of as soon as their de- 
fects were noticed. Disease and the 
approach of death were, in the absence 
of a sense of touch or of physical pain, 
recognized by purely visual symptoms. 

The dead were incinerated with dig- 
nified ceremonies. Once in a while, as 
before mentioned, a keen mind would 
escape death by forward projection in 
time ; but such cases were not numerous. 
When one did occur, the exiled mind 
from the future was treated with the 



132 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



utmost kindness till the dissolution of its 
unfamiliar tenement. 

THE GREAT RACE seemed to 
form a single, loosely knit nation or 
league, with major institutions in com- 
mon, though there were four definite 
divisions. The political and economical 
system of each unit was a sort of fas- 
cistic socialism, with major re.sources 
rationally distributed, and power dele- 
gated to a small governing board elected 
by the votes of all able to pass certain 
educational and psychological tests. 
Family organization was not over- 
stressed, though ties among persons of 
common descent were recognized, and 
the young were generally reared by 
their parents. 

Resemblances to human attitudes and 
institutions were, of course, most 
marked in those .fields where on the 
one hand highly abstract elements were 
concerned, or, where on the other hand 
there was a dominance of the basic, un- 
specialized urges common to all organic 
life. A few added likenesses came 
through conscious adoption as the Great 
Race probed the future and copied what 
it liked. 

Industry, highly mechanized, de- 
manded but little time from each citizen ; 
and the abundant leisure was filled with 
intellectual and aesthetic activities of 
various sorts. 

The sciences were carried to an un- 
believable height of development, and 
art was a vital part of life, though at 
the period of my dreams it had passed 
its crest and meridian. Technology was 
enormously stimulated through the con- 
stant struggle to survive, and to keep in 
existence the physical fabric of great 
cities, imposed by the prodigious geo- 
logic upheavals of those primal days. 

Crljiie was surprisingly scant, and 
was dealt with through highly efficient 
polici ig. Punishments ranged from 
privilege deprivation and imprisonment 
to death or major emotion wrenching, 



and were never administered without 
a careful study of the criminal’s motiva- 
tions. 

Warfare, largely civil for the last 
few millennia though sometimes waged 
against reptilian and octopodic invaders, 
or against the winged, star-headed old 
ones who centered in the antarctic, was 
infrequent though infinitely devastat- 
ing. An enormous army, using camera- 
like weapons which produced tremen- 
dous electrical effects, was kept on hand 
for purposes seldom mentioned, but ob- 
viously connected with the ceaseless fear 
of the dark, windowless elder ruins and 
of the great sealed trapdoors in the low- 
est subterranean levels. 

THIS FEAR of the basalt ruins and 
trapdoors was largely a matter of un- 
spoken suggestion — or, at most, of fur- 
tive, quasi whispers. Everything .specific 
which bore on it was significantly absent 
from such books as were on the com- 
mon shelves. It was the one subject 
lying altogether under a taboo among 
the Great Race, and seemed to be con- 
nected alike with horrible bygone strug- 
gles, and with that future peril which 
would some day force the race to send 
its keener minds ahead en masse in 
time. 

Imperfect and fragmentary as were 
the other things presented by dreams and 
legends, this matter was still more baf- 
ffingly shrouded. The vague old myths 
avoided it — or perhaps all allusions had 
for some reason been excised. And in 
the dreams of myself and others, the 
hints were peculiarly few. Members of 
the Great Race never intentionally re- 
ferred to the matter, and what could be 
gleaned came only from some of the 
more sharply observant captive minds. 

According to these scraps of infor- 
mation, the basis of the fear was a 
horrible elder race of half polypous, ut- 
terly alien entities which had come 
through space from immeasurably dis- 
tant universes and had dominated the 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



133 



Earth and three other solar planets 
about six hundred million years ago. 
They were only partly material — as we 
understand matter — and their type of 
consciousness and media of perception 
differed widely from those of Terrestrial 
organisms. For example, their senses 
did not include that of sight ; their men- 
tal world being a strange, nonvisual pat- 
tern of impressions. 

They were, however, sufficiently ma- 
terial to use implements of normal mat- 
ter when in cosmic areas containing it; 
and they required housing — albeit of a 
peculiar kind. Though their senses 
could penetrate all material barriers, 
their substance could not ; and certain 
forms of electrical energy could wholly 
destroy them. They had the power of 
aerial motion, despite the absence of 
wings or any other visible means of 
levitation. Their minds were of such 
texture that no exchange with them 
could be effected by the Great Race. 

When these things had come to the 
Earth they had built mighty basalt cities 
of windowless towers, and had preyed 
horribly upon the beings they found. 
Thus it was when the minds of the 
Great Race sped across the void from 
that obscure, transgalactic world known 
in the disturbing and debatable Eltdown 
Shards as Yith. 

The newcomers, with the instruments 
they created, had found it easy to sub- 
due the predatory entities and drive 
them down to those caverns of inner 
earth which they had already joined to 
their abodes and begun to inhabit. 

Then they had sealed the entrances 
and left them to their fate, afterward 
occupying most of their great cities and 
preserving certain important buildings 
for reasons connected more with super- 
stition than with indifference, boldness, 
or scientific and historical zeal. 

But as the aeons passed, there came 
vague, evil signs that the elder things 
were growing strong and numerous in 



the inner world. There were sporadic 
irruptions of a particularly hideous 
character in certain small and remote 
cities of the Great Race, and in some 
of the deserted elder cities which the 
Great Race had not peopled — places 
where the paths to the gulfs below had 
not been properly sealed or guarded. 

After that greater precautions were 
taken, and many of the paths were 
closed forever — though a few were left 
with sealed trapdoors for strategic use 
in fighting the elder things if ever they 
broke forth in unexpected places. 

THE IRRUPTIONS of the elder 
things must have been shocking beyond 
all description, since they had perma- 
nently colored the psychology of the 
Great Race. Such was the fixed mood 
of horror that the very aspect of the 
creatures was left unmentioned. At no 
time was I able to gain a clear hint of 
what they looked like. 

There were veiled suggestions of a 
monstrous plasticity, and of temporary 
lapses of visibility, while other frag- 
mentary whispers referred to their con- 
trol and military use of great winds. 
Singular whistling noises, and colossal 
footprints made up of five circular toe 
marks, seemed also to be associated with 
them. 

It was evident that the coming doom 
so desperately feared by the Great Race 
— the doom that was one day to send 
millions of keen minds across the chasm 
of time to strange bodies in the safer 
future — had to do with a final success- 
ful irruption of the elder beings. 

Mental projections down the ages had 
clearly foretold such a horror, and the 
Great Race had resolved that none who 
could escape should face it. That the 
foray would be a matter of vengeance, 
rather than an attempt to reoccupy the 
outer world, they knew from the planet’s 
later history — for their projections 
showed the coming and going of sub- 



134 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



sequent races untroubled by the mon- 
strous entities. 

Perhaps these entities had come to 
prefer Earth’s inner abysses to the vari- 
able, storm-ravaged surfaces, since light 
meant nothing to them. Perhaps, too, 
they were slowly weakening with the 
aeons. Indeed, it was known that they 
would be quite dead in the time of the 
post-human beetle race which the fleeing 
minds would tenant. 

Meanwhile, the Great Race main- 
tained its cautious vigilance, with potent 
weapons ceaselessly ready despite the 
horrified banishing of the subject from 
common speech and visible records. And 
always the shadow of nameless fear 
hung about the sealed trapdoors and the 
dark, windowless elder towers. 

V. 

THAT IS the world of which my 
dreams brought me dim, scattered echoes 
every night. I cannot hope to give any 
true idea of the horror and dread con- 
tained in such echoes, for it was upon 
a wholly intangible quality — the sharp 
sense of pseudomemory — that such feel- 
ings mainly depended. 

As I have said, my studies gradually 
gave me a defense against these feel- 
ings in the form of rational, psycho- 
logical explanations ; and this saving 
influence was augmented by the subtle 
touch of accustomedness which comes 
with the passage of time. Yet, in spite 
of everything, the vague, creeping ter- 
ror would return momentarily now and 
then. It did not, however, engulf me 
as it had before ; and after 1922 I lived 
a very normal life of work and recre- 
ation. 

In the course of years I began to 
feel that my experience — together with 
the kindred cases and the related folk- 
lore — ought to be definitely summarized 
and published for the benefit of serious 
students; hence, I prepared a series of 



articles briefly covering the whole 
ground and illustrated with crude 
sketches of some of the shapes, scenes, 
decorative motifs, and hieroglyphs re- 
membered from the dreams. 

These appeared at various times dur- 
ing 1928 and 1929 in the Journal of the 
American Psychological Society, but 
did not attract much attention. Mean- 
while, I continued to record my dreams 
with the minutest care, even though the 
growing stack of reports attained trou- 
blesomely vast proportions. 

On July 10, 1934, there was for- 
warded to me by the Psychological So- 
ciety the letter which opened the 
culminating and most horrible phase of 
the whole mad ordeal. It was post- 
marked Pilbarra, Western Australia, and 
bore the signature of one whom I found, 
upon inquiry, to be a mining engineer 
of considerable prominence. Inclosed 
were some very curious snapshots. I 
will reproduce the text in its entirety, 
and no reader can fail to understand 
how tremendous an effect it and the 
photographs had upon me. 

I WAS, for a time, almost stunned 
and incredulous ; for, although I had 
often thought that some basis of fact 
must underlie certain phases of the 
legends which had colored my dreams, 
I was none the less unprepared for any- 
thing like a tangible survival from a lost 
world remote beyond all imagination. 
Most devastating of all were the pho- 
tographs — for here, in cold, incontro- 
vertible realism, there stood out against 
a background of sand certain worn- 
down, water-ridged, storm-weathered 
blocks of stone whose slightly convex 
tops and slightly concave bottoms told 
their own story. 

And when I studied them with a mag- 
nifying glass I could see all too plainly, 
amidst the batterings and pittings, the 
traces of those vast curvilinear designs 
and occasional hieroglyphs whose sig- 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



135 



nificance had become so hideous to me. 
But here is the letter, which speaks for 
itself : 

49, Dampier St., 

Pilbarra, VV. Australia, 
May 18, 1934. 

Prof. N. W. Peaslee, 

c/o Am. Psychological Society, 

30 E. 41st St., 

New York City, U. S. A. 

My Dear Sir: 

A recent conversation with Dr. E. M. 
Boyle of Perth, and some papers with 
your articles which he has just sent me, 
make it advisable for me to tell you 
about certain things I have seen in the 
Great Sandy Desert east of our gold field 
here. It would seem, in view of the 
peculiar legends about old cities with 
huge stonework and strange designs and 
hieroglyphs which you describe, that I 
have come upon something very impor- 
tant. 

The blackfellows have always been full 
of talk about “great stones with marks on 
them,’’ and seem to have a terrible fear 
of such things. They connect them in 
some way with their common racial 
legends about Buddai, the gigantic old 
man who lies asleep for ages under- 
ground with his head on his arm, and 
who will some day awake and eat up the 
world. 

There are some very old and half-for- 
gotten tales of enormous underground 
huts of great stones, where passages lead 
down and down, and where horrible 
things have happened. The blackfellows 
claim that once some warriors, fleeing 
in battle, went down into one and never 
came back, but that frightful winds be- 
gan to blow from the place soon after 
they went down. However, there usually 
isn’t much in what these natives say. 

But what I have to tell is more than 
this. Two years ago, when I was pros- 
pecting about five hundred miles east in 
the desert, I came on a lot of queer pieces 
of dressed stone perhaps 3x2x2 feet 
in size, and weathered and pitted to the 
very limit. 

At first I couldn’t find any of the 
marks the blackfellows told about, but 
when I looked close enough I could make 
out some deeply carved lines in spite of 
the w'eathering. There were peculiar 
curves, just like what the blackfellows 



had tried to describe. I imagine there 
must have been thirty or forty blocks, 
some nearly buried in the sand, and all 
within a circle of perhaps a quarter of a 
mile in diameter. 

When I saw some, I looked around 
closely for more, and made a careful 
reckoning of the place with my in- 
struments. I also took pictures of ten or 
twelve of the most typical blocks, and 
will inclose the prints for you to see. 

I turned my information and pictures 
into the government at Perth, but they 
have done nothing with them. 

Then I met Dr. Boyle, who had read 
your articles in the Journal of the Ameri- 
can Psychological Society, and, in time, 
happened to mention the stones. He was 
enormously interested and became quite 
excited when I showed him my snapshots, 
saying that the stones and the markings 
W'ere just like those of the masonry you 
had dreamed about and seen described in 
legends. 

He meant to write you, but was de- 
layed. Meanwhile, he sent me most of 
the magazines with your articles and I 
saw at once, from your drawings and 
descriptions, that my stones are certainly 
the kind you mean. You can appreciate 
this from the inclosed prints. Later on 
you will hear directly from Dr. Boyle. 

Now I can understand how important 
all this will be to you. Without ques- 
tion we are faced with the remains of 
an unknown civilization older than any 
dreamed of tiefore, and forming a basis 
for your legends. 

As a mining engineer I have some 
knowledge of geology, and can tell you 
that these blocks are so > ancient they 
frighten me. They are mostly sandstone 
and granite, though one is almost cer- 
tainly made of a queer sort of cement or 
concrete. 

They bear evidence of water action, as 
if this part of the world had been sub- 
merged and come up again after long 
ages — all since those blocks were made 
and used. It is a matter of hundreds of 
thousands of years — or Heaven knows 
how much more. I don’t like to think 
about it. 

In view of your previous diligent work 
in tracking down the legends and every- 
thing connected with them, I cannot 
doubt but that you will want to lead an 
expedition to the desert and make some 
archseological excavations. Both Dr. 
Boyle and I are prepared to cooperate in 



136 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



such work if you — or organizations 
known to you — can furnish the funds. 

I can get together a dozen miners for 
the heavy digging — the blackfellows 
would be of no use, for I’ve found that 
they have an almost maniacal fear of this 
particular spot. Boyle and I are saying 
nothing to others, for you very obviously 
ought to have precedence in any dis- 
coveries or credit. 

The place can be reached from Pil- 
barra in about four days by motor trac- 
tor — which we’d need for our apparatus. 

It is somewhat west and south of War- 
burton’s path of 1873, and one hundred 
miles southeast of Joanna Spring. We 
could float things up the De Grey River 
instead of starting from Pilbarra — but 
all that can be talked over later. 

Roughly the stones lie at a point 
about 22° 3' 14" South Latitude, 125° 

0’ 39" East Longitude. The climate is 
tropical, and the desert conditions are 
trying. 

I shall .welcome further correspondence 
upon this subject, and am indeed keenly 
eager to assist in any plan you may de- 
vise. After studying your articles I am 
deeply impressed with the profound 
significance of the whole matter. Dr. 
Boyle will write later. When rapid com- 
munication is needed, a cable to Perth can 
be relayed by wireless. 

Hoping profoundly for an early mes- 
sage. 

Believe me, 

Most faithfully yours, 
Robkrt B. F. Mackenzie. 

OF THE immediate aftermath of this 
letter, much can be learned from the 
press. My good fortune in securing the 
backing of Miskatonic University was 
great, and both Mr. Mackenzie and Dr. 
Boyle proved invaluable in arranging 
matters at the Australian end. We 
were not too specific with the public 
about our objects, since the whole mat- 
ter would have lent itself unpleasantly 
to sensational and jocose treatment by 
the cheaper newspapers. As a result, 
printed reports were sparing; but 
enough appeared to tell of our quest for 
reported Australian ruins and to chron- 
icle our various preparatory steps. 

Professor William Dyer of the col- 
lege’s geology department — leader of the 



Miskatonic Antarctic Expedition of 
1930-31 — Ferdinand C. Ashley of the 
department of ancient history, and Tyler 
M. Freeborn of the department of an- 
thropology — together with my son Win- 
gate- — accompanied me. 

My correspondent, Mackenzie, came 
to Arkham early in 1935 and assisted 
in our final preparations. He proved to 
be a tremendously competent and 
affable man of about fifty, admirably 
well-read, and deeply familiar with all 
the conditions of Australian travel. 

He had tractors waiting at Pilbarra, 
and we chartered a tramp steamer to 
get up the river to that point. We were 
prepared to excavate in the most careful 
and scientific fashion, sifting every 
particle of sand, and disturbing nothing 
which might seem to be in or near its 
original situation. 

Sailing from Boston aboard the 
wheezy Lexington on March 28, 1935, 
we had a leisurely trip across the At- 
lantic and Mediterranean, through the 
Suez Canal, down the Red Sea, and 
across the Indian Ocean to our goal. I 
need not tell how the sight of the low, 
sandy West Australian coast depressed 
me, and how I detested the crude min- 
ing town and dreary gold fields where 
the tractors were given their last loads. 

Dr. Boyle, who met us, proved to be 
elderly, pleasant and intelligent — and 
his knowledge of psychology led him 
into many long discussions with my son 
and me. 

Discomfort and expectancy were 
oddly mingled in most of us when at 
length our party of eighteen rattled 
forth over the arid leagues of sand and 
rock. On Friday, May 31st, we forded 
a branch of the De Grey and entered 
the realm of utter desolation. A certain 
positive terror grew on me as we ad- 
vanced to this actual site of the elder 
world behind the legends — a terror, of 
course,, abetted by the fact that my dis- 
turbing dreams and pseudomemories 
still beset me with unabated force. 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



137 



IT WAS on Monday, June 3rd, that 
we saw the first of the half-buried 
blocks. I cannot describe the emotions 
with which I actually touched — in ob- 
jective reality — a fragment of Cyclopean 
masonry in every respect like the blocks 
in the walls of my dream buildings. 
There was a distinct trace of carving — 
and my hands trembled as I recognized 
part of a curvilinear decorative scheme 
made hellish to me through years of 
tormenting nightmare and baffling re- 
search. 

A month of digging brought a total 
of some 1250 blocks in varying stages 
of wear and disintegration. Most of 
these were carven megaliths with curved 
tops and bottoms. A minority were 
smaller, flatter, plain-surfaced, and 
square or octagonally cut" — like those of 
the floors and pavements in my dreams 
— while a few were singularly massive 
and curved or slanted in such a man- 
ner as to suggest use in vaulting or 
groining, or as parts of arches or round 
window casings. 

The deeper — and the farther north 
and east — we dug, the more blocks we 
found; though we still failed to dis- 
cover any trace of arrangement among 
them. Professor Dyer was appalled at 
the measureless age of the fragments, 
and Freeborn found traces of symbols 
which fitted darkly into certain Papuan 
and Polynesian legends of infinite 
antiquity. The condition and scattering 
of the blocks told minutely of verti- 
ginous cycles of time and geologic up- 
heavals of cosmic savagery. 

We had an airplane with us, an'd my 
son Wingate would often go up to dif- 
ferent heights and scan the sand-and- 
rock waste for signs of dim, large-scale 
outlines — either differences of level or 
trails of scattered blocks. His results 
were virtually negative ; for whenever 
he would one day think he had glimpsed 
some significant trend, he would on his 
next trip find the impression replaced 



by another equally insubstantial — a re- 
sult of the shifting, wind-blown sand. 

One or two of these ephemeral sug- 
gestions, though, altected me queerly 
and disagreeably. They seemed, after 
a fashion, to dovetail horribly with some- 
thing I had dreamed or read, but which 
I could no longer remember. There was 
a terrible familiarity about them — which 
somehow made me look furtively and 
apprehensively over the abominable, 
sterile terrain toward the north and 
northeast. 

Around the first week in July I de- 
veloped an unaccountable set of mixed 
emotions about that general northeast- 
erly region. There was horror, and 
there was curiosity — but more than that, 
there was a persistent a:nd perplexing 
illusion of memory. 

I tried all sorts of psychological ex- 
pedients to get these notions out of my 
head, but met with no success. Sleep- 
lessness also gained upon me, but I 
almost welcomed this because of the 
resultant shortening of my dream 
periods. I acquired the habit of taking 
long, lone walks in the desert late at 
night — usually to the north or north- 
east, whither the sum of my strange new 
impulses seemed subtly to pull me. 

SOMETIMES, on these walks, I 
would stumble over nearly buried frag- 
ments of the ancient masonry. Though 
there were fewer visible blocks here 
than where we had started, I felt sure 
that there must be a vast abundance be- 
neath the surface. The ground was less 
level than at our camp, and the pre- 
vailing high winds now and then piled 
the sand into fantastic temporary 
hillocks — exposing low traces of the 
elder stones while it covered other traces. 

I was queerly anxious to have the ex- 
cavations extend to this territory, yet 
at the same time dreaded what might 
be revealed. Obviously, I was getting 
into a rather bad state — all the worse 
because I could not account for it. 



138 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



An indication of my poor nervous 
health can be gained from my response 
to an odd discovery which I made on 
one of my nocturnal rambles. It was 
on the evening of July 11th, when the 
Moon flooded the mysterious hillocks 
with a curious pallor. 

Wandering somewhat beyond my 
usual limits, I came upon a great stone 
which seemed to differ markedly from 
any we had yet encountered. It was 
almost wholly covered, but I stooped 
and cleared away the sand with my 
hands, later studying the object care- 
fully and supplementing the Moonlight 
with my electric torch. 

Unlike the other very large rocks, 
this one was perfectly square-cut, with 
no convex or concave surface. It 
seemed, too, to be of a dark basaltic 
substance, wholly dissimilar to the 
granite and sandstone and occasional 
concrete of the now familiar fragments. 

Suddenly I rose, turned, and ran for 
the camp at top speed. It was a wholly 
unconscious and irrational flight, and 
only when I was close to my tent did 
I fully realize why I had run. Then 
it came to me. The queer dark stone 
was something I had dreamed and read 
about, and which was linked with the 
uttermost horrors of the aeon-old 
legendry. 

It was one of the blocks of that 
basaltic elder masonry which the fabled 
Great Race held in such fear — the tall, 
windowless ruins left by those brooding, 
half-material, alien things that festered 
in Earth’s nether abysses and against 
whose windlike, invisible forces the trap- 
doors were sealed and the sleepless sen- 
tinels posted. 

I remained awake all that night, but 
by dawn realized how silly I had been 
to let the shadow of a myth upset me. 
Instead of being frightened, I should 
have had a discoverer’s enthusiasm. 

The next forenoon I told the others 
about my find, and Dyer, Freeborn, 
Boyle, my son, and I set out to view the 



anomalous block. Failure, however, con- 
fronted us. I had formed no clear idea 
of the stone’s location, and a late wind 
had wholly altered the hillocks of shift- 
ing sand. 

VI. 

I COME NOW to the crucial and 
the most difficult part of my narrative — 
all the more difficult because I cannot 
be quite certain of its reality. At times 
I feel uncomfortably sure that I was 
not dreaming or deluded; and it is this 
feeling — in view of the stupendous im- 
plications which the objective truth of 
my experience would raise — which im- 
pels me to make this record. 

My son — a trained psychologist with 
the fullest and most sympathetic knowl- 
edge of my whole case — shall be the 
primary judge of what I have to tell. 

First let me outline the externals of 
the matter, as those at the camp know 
them : On the night of July 17-18, after 
a windy day, I retired early but could 
not sleep. Rising shortly before eleven, 
and afflicted as usual with that strange 
feeling regarding the northeastward ter- 
rain, I set out on one of my typical 
nocturnal walks, seeing and greeting 
only one person — an Australian miner 
named Tupper — as I left our precincts. 

The Moon, slightly past full, shone 
from a clear sky, and drenched the an- 
cient sands with a white, leprous radi- 
ance which seemed to me somehow 
infinitely evil. There was no longer any 
wind, nor did any return for nearly five 
hours, as amply attested by Tupper and 
others who saw me walking rapidly 
across the pallid, secret -guarding hillocks 
toward the northeast. 

About 3 :30 a. m., a violent wind blew 
up, waking every one in camp and fell- 
ing three of the tents. The sky was 
unclouded, and the desert still blazed 
with that leprous Moonlight. As the 
party saw to the tents my absence was 
noted, but in view of my previous walks 
this circum.stance gave no one alarm. 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



139 



And yet, as many as three men — all 
Australians — seemed to feel something 
sinister in the air. 

Mackenzie explained to Professor 
Freeljorn that this was a fear picked up 
from blackfellow folklore — the natives 
having woven a curious fabric of 
malignant myth about the high winds 
which at long intervals sweep across the 
sands under a clear sky. Such winds, 
it is whispered, blow out of the great 
stone huts under the ground, where ter- 
ril)le things have happened — and are 
never felt except near places where the 
I)ig marked stones are scattered. Close 
to four the gale subsided as suddenly 
as it had begun, leaving the sand hills 
in new' and unfamiliar shapes. 

It was just iJast five, with the bloated, 
fungoid Moon sinking in the west, when 
1 staggered into camp — hatless, tattered, 
features scratched and ensanguined, and 
without my electric torch. Most of the 
men had returned to bed, but Professor 
Dyer was smoking a pipe in front of 
his tent. Seeing my winded and almost 
frenzied state, he called Dr. Boyle, and 
the two of them got me on my cot and 
made me comfortable. My son, roused 
by the stir, soon joined them, and they 
all tried to force me to lie still and at- 
tempt sleep. 

But there was no sleep for me. My 
psychological state was very extraordi- 
nary — different from anything I had 
previously suffered. After a time I in- 
sisted upon talking — nervously and elab- 
orately explaining my condition. 

I told them I had become fatigued, 
and had lain down in the sand for a 
nap. There had, I said, been dreams 
even more frightful than usual — and 
when I was awaked by the sudden high 
wind my overwrought nerves had 
snapped. I had fled in panic, frequently 
falling over half-buried stones and thus 
gaining my tattered and bedraggled as- 
pect. I must have slept long — hence 
the hours of my absence. 

Of anything strange either seen or 



experienced I hinted absolutely nothing 
—exercising the greatest self-control in 
that respect. But I sjxjke of a change 
of mind regarding the whole work of the 
expedition, and earnestly urged a halt 
in all digging toward the northeast. 

My reasoning was patently weak — 
for I mentioned a dearth of blocks, a 
wish not to offend the superstitious min- 
ers, a possible shortage of funds from 
the college, and other things either un- 
true or irrelevant. Naturally, no one 
paid the least attention to my new wishes 
— not even my son, whose concern for 
my health was very obvious. 

THE NEXT DAY I was up and 
around the camp, but took no part in 
the excavations. Seeing that I could 
not stop the work, I decided to return 
home as soon as possible for the sake 
of my nerves, and made my son promise 
to fly me in the plane to Perth — a thou- 
sand miles to the southwest — as soon 
as he had surveyed the region I wished 
let alone. 

If, I reflected, the thing I had seen 
was still visible, I might decide to at- 
tempt a specific warning even at the 
cost of ridicule. It was just conceivable 
that the miners who knew the local folk- 
lore might back me up. Humoring me, 
my son made the survey that very after- 
noon, flying over all the terrain my walk 
could possibly have covered. Yet noth- 
ing of what I had found remained in 
sight. 

It was the case of the anomalous 
basalt block all over again — the shift- 
ing sand had wiped out every trace. 
For an instant I half regretted having 
lost a certain awesome object in my 
stark fright — but now I know that the 
loss was merciful. I can still believe 
my whole experience an illusion — espe- 
cially if, as I devoutly hope, that hellish 
abyss is never found. 

Wingate took me to Perth on July 
20th, though declining to abandon the 
expedition and return home. He stayed 



140 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



with me until the 25th, when the steamer 
for Liverpool sailed. Now, in the cabin 
of the Empress, I am pondering long 
and frantically upon the entire matter, 
and have decided that my son, at least, 
must be informed. It shall rest with 
him whether to diffuse the matter more 
widely. 

In order to meet any eventuality I 
have prepared this summary of my back- 
ground — as already known in a scattered 
way to others — and will now tell as 
briefly as possible what seemed to hap- 
pen during my absence from the camp 
that hideous night. 

Nerves on edge, and whipped into a 
kind of perverse eagerness by that in- 
explicable, dread-mingled, mnemonic 
urge toward the northeast, I plodded on 
beneath the evil, burning Moon. Here 
and there I saw, half shrouded by the 
sand, those primal Cyclopean blocks 
left from nameless and forgotten aeons. 

The incalculable age and brooding 
horror of this monstrous waste began 
to oppress me as never before, and I 
could not keep from thinking of my 
maddening dreams, of the frightful 
legends which lay behind them, and of 
the present fears of natives and miners 
concerning the desert and its carven 
stones. 

And yet I plodded on as if to some 
eldritch rendezvous — more and more as- 
sailed by bewildering fancies, compul- 
sions, and pseudomemories. I thought 
of some of the possible contours of the 
lines of stones as seen by my son from 
the air, and wondered why they seemed 
at once so ominous and so familiar. 
.Something was fumbling and rattling 
at the latch of my recollection, while 
another unknown force .sought to keep 
the portal barred. 

The night was windless, and the pallid 
sand curved upward and downward like 
frozen waves of the sea. I had no goal, 
but somehow plowed along as if with 
fate-bound assurance. My dreams 
welled up into the waking world, so 



that each sand-embedded megalith 
seemed part of endless rooms and cor- 
ridors of prehuman masonry, carved 
and hieroglyphed with symbols that I 
knew too well from years of custom as 
a captive mind of the Great Race. 

At moments I fancied I saw those 
omniscient, conical horrors moving 
about at their accustomed tasks, and 
I feared to look down lest I find my- 
self one with them in aspect. Yet all 
the while I saw the sand-covered blocks 
as well as the rooms and corridors ; the 
evil, burning Moon as well as the lamps 
of luminous crystal; the endless desert 
as well as the waving ferns beyond the 
windows. I was awake and dreaming 
at the same time. 

I do not know how long or how far 
— or indeed, in just what direction — I 
had walked when I first spied the heap 
of blocks bared by the day’s wind. It 
was the largest group in one place that 
I had seen so far, and so sharply did it 
impress me that the visions of fabulous 
aeons faded suddenly away. 

Again there were only the desert and 
the evil Moon and the shards of an un- 
guessed past. I drew close and paused, 
and cast the added light of my electric 
torch over the tumbled pile. A hillock 
had blown away, leaving a low, irreg- 
ularly round mass of megaliths and 
smaller fragments some forty feet across 
and from two to eight feet high. 

From the very outset I realized that 
there was some utterly unprecedented 
quality about those stones. Not only 
was the mere number of them quite 
without parallel, but something in the 
sand-worn traces of design arrested me 
as I scanned them under the mingled 
beams of the Moon and my torch. 

Not that any one differed essentially 
from the earlier specimens we had 
found. It was something subtler than 
that. The impression did not come 
when I looked at one block alone, but 
only when I ran my eye over several 
almost simultaneously. 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



141 



Then, at last, the truth dawned upon 
me. The curvilinear patterns on many 
of those blocks were closely related — 
parts of one vast decorative conception 
For the first time in this aeon-shaken 
waste I had come upon a mass of ma- 
sonry in its old position — tumbled and 
fragmentary, it is true, but none the less 
existing in a very definite sense. 

MOUNTING at a low place, I clam- 
bered laboriously over the heap; here 
and there clearing away the sand with 
my fingers, and constantly striving to 



interpret varieties of size, shape,' and 
style, and relationships of design. 

After a while I could vaguely guess 
at the nature of the bygone structure, 
and at the designs which had once 
stretched over the vast surfaces of the 
primal masonry. The perfect identity 
of the whole with some of my dream 
glimpses appalled and unnerved me. 

This was once a Cyclopean corridor 
thirty feet wide and thirty feet tall, 
paved with octagonal blocks and solidly 
vaulted overhead. There would have 
been rooms opening off on the right. 




Never before had human feet pressed upon those 
immemorial pavements! 





142 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



and at the farther end one of those 
strange inclined planes would have 
wound down to still lower depths. 

I started violently as these concep- 
tions occurred to me, for there was more 
in them than the blocks themselves had 
supplied. How did I know that this 
level should have been far underground ? 
How did I know that the plane leading 
upward should have been behind me ? 
How did I know that the long subter- 
rane passage to the square of pillars 
ought to lie on the left one level above 
me? 

How did I know that the room of 
machines and the rightward-leading tun- 
nel to the central archives ought to lie 
two levels below ? How did I know that 
there would be one of those horrible, 
metal-banded trapdoors at the very bot- 
tom four levels down? Bewildered by 
this intrusion from the dream world, I 
found myself shaking and bathed in a 
cold perspiration. 

Then, as a last, intolerable touch, I 
felt that faint, insidious stream of cool 
air trickling upward from a depressed 
place near the center of the huge heap. 
In.stantly, as once before, my visions 
faded, and I saw again only the evil 
Moonlight, the brooding desert, and the 
spreading tumulus of Paleogean ma- 
sonry. Something real and tangible, yet 
fraught with infinite suggestions of 
nighted mystery, now confronted me. 
For that stream of air could argue but 
one thing — a hidden gulf of great size 
beneath the disordered blocks on the sur- 
face. 

My first thought was of the sinister 
blackfellow legends of vast under- 
ground huts among the megaliths where 
horrors happen and great winds are 
born. Then thoughts of my own dreams 
came back, and I felt dim pseudomem- 
ories tugging at my mind. What man- 
ner of place lay below me? What 
primal, inconceivable source of age-old 
myth cycles and haunting nightmares 
might I be on the brink of uncovering? 



It was only for a moment that I hesi- 
tated, for more than curiosity and sci- 
entific zeal was driving me on and 
working against my growing fear. 

I seemed to move almost automatically, 
as if in the clutch of some compelling 
fate. Pocketing my torch, and strug- 
gling with a strength that I had not 
thought I possessed, I wrenched aside 
first one titan fragment of stone and 
then another, till there welled up a 
strong draft whose dampness contrasted 
oddly with the desert’s dry air. A black 
rift began to yawn, and at length — 
when I had pushed away every frag- 
ment small enough to budge — the 
leprous Moonlight blazed on an aperture 
of ample width to admit me. 

I drew out my torch and cast a bril- 
liant beam into the opening. Below me 
was a chaos of tumbled masonry, slop- 
ing roughly down toward the north at 
an angle of about forty-five degrees, and 
evidently the result of some bygone col- 
lapse from above. 

Between its surface and the ground 
level was a gulf of impenetrable black- 
ness at whose upper edge were signs of 
gigantic, stress-heaved vaulting. At 
this point, it appeared, the desert’s sands 
lay directly upon a floor of some titan 
structure of Earth’s youth — how pre- 
served through seons of geologic convul- 
sion I could not then and cannot now 
even attempt to guess. 

IN RETROSPECT, the barest idea 
of a sudden, lone descent into such a 
doubtful abyss — and at a time when 
one’s whereabouts were unknown to any 
living soul — seems like the utter apex 
of insanity. Perhaps it was — yet that 
night I embarked without hesitancy 
upon such a descent. 

Again there was manifest that lure 
and driving of fatality which had all 
along seemed to direct my course. With 
torch flashing intermittently to save the 
battery, I commenced a mad scramble 
down the sinister, Cyclopean incline be- 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



143 



low the opening — sometimes facing for- 
ward as I found good hand and foot 
holds, and at other times turning to face 
the heap of megaliths as I clung and 
fumbled more precariously. 

In two directions beside me, distant 
walls of carven, crumbling masonry 
loomed dimly under the direct beams of 
my torch. Ahead, however, was only 
unbroken blackness. 

I kept no track of time during my 
downward scramble. So seething with 
baffling hints and images was my mind 
that all objective matters seemed with- 
drawn to incalculable distances. Phys- 
ical sensation was dead, and even fear 
remained as a wraithlike, inactive gar- 
goyle leering impotently at me. 

Eventually I reached a level floor 
strewn with fallen blocks, shapeless 
fragments, of stone, and sand and de- 
tritus of every kind. On either side — ■ 
perhaps thirty feet apart — rose massive 
walls culminating in huge groinings. 
That they were carved I could just dis- 
cern, but the nature of the carvings was 
beyond my perception. 

What held me most was the vaulting 
overhead. The beam from my torch 
could not reach the root, but the lower 
parts of the monstrous arches stood out 
distinctly. And so perfect was their 
identity with what I had seen in count- 
less dreams of the elder world, that I 
trembled actively for the first time. 

Behind and high above, a faint lumi- 
nous blur told of the distant Moon- 
lighted world outside. Some vague shred 
of caution warned me that I should not 
let it out of my sight, lest I have no 
guide for my return. 

I now advanced toward the wall at 
my left, where the traces of carving 
seemed to have acted on the sandstone 
nearly as hard to traverse as the down- 
ward heap had been, but I managed to 
pick my difficult way. 

At one place I heaved aside some 
blocks and kicked away the detritus to 



see what the pavement was like, and 
shuddered at the utter, fateful familiar- 
ity of the great octagonal stones whose 
buckled surface still held roughly to- 
gether. 

Reaching a convenient distance from 
the wall, I cast the searchlight slowly 
and carefully over its worn remnants of 
carving. Some bygone influx of water 
seemed to have acted on the sandstone 
surface, while there were curious in- 
crustations which I could not explain. 

In places tha masonry was very loose 
and distorted, and I wondered how many 
icons more this primal, hidden edifice 
could keep its remaining traces of form 
amidst Earth’s heavings. 

BUT it was the carvings themselves 
that excited me most. Despite their 
time-crumbled state, they were relatively 
easy to trace at close range; and the 
complete, intimate familiarity of every 
detail almost stunned my imagination. 
That the major attributes of this hoary 
masonry should be familiar, was not be- 
yond normal credibility. 

Powerfully impressing the weavers 
of certain myths, they had become em- 
bodied in a stream of cryptic lore which, 
somehow, coming to my notice during 
the amnesic period, had evoked vivid 
images in my subconscious mind.. 

But how could I explain the exact 
and minute fashion in which each line 
and spiral of these strange designs 
tallied with what I had dreamed for 
more than a score of years? What ob- 
scure, forgotten iconography could have 
reproduced each subtle shading and 
nuance which so persistently, exactly, 
and unvaryingly besieged my sleeping 
vision night after night? 

For this was no chance or remote re- 
semblance. Definitely and absolutely, 
the millennially ancient, aeon-hidden cor- 
ridor in which I stood was the original 
of something I knew in sleep as inti- 
mately as I knew my own house in 



144 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



Crane Street, Arkham. True, my 
dreams showed the place in its unde- 
cayed prime ; hut the identity was no 
less real on that account. I was wholly 
and horribly oriented. 

The jxirticular structure I was in was 
known to me. Known, too, was its place 
in that terrible elder city of dream. 
That I could visit unerringly any point 
in that structure or in that city which 
had escaped the changes and devasta- 
tions of uncounted ages, I realized with 
hideous and instinctive certainty. What 
in Heaven’s name could all this mean? 
How had I come to know what I knew ? 
And what awful reality could lie be- 
hind those antique tales of the beings 
who had dwelt in this labyrinth of 
primordial stone? 

Words can convey only fractionally 
the welter of dread and bewilderment 
which ate at my spirit. I knew this 
place. I knew what lay below me, and 
what had lain overhead before the 
myriad towering stories had fallen to 
dust and debris and the desert. No need 
now, I thought with a shudder, to keep 
that faint blur of Moonlight in view. 

I was torn betwixt a longing to flee 
and a feverish mixture of burning curi- 
osity and driving fatality. What had 
happened to this monstrous megalopolis 
of old in the millions of years since the 
time of my dreams? Of the subterrane 
mazes which had underlain the city and 
linked all the titan towers, how much 
had still survived the writhings of 
Earth’s crust? 

Had I come upon a whole buried 
world of unholy archaism? Could I 
still find the house of the writing mas- 
ter, and the tower where S’gg’ha, the 
captive mind from the star-headed vege- 
table carnivores of antarctica, had 
chiseled certain pictures on the blank 
spaces of the walls? 

Would the passage at the second level 
down, to the hall of the alien minds, 
be still unchoked and traversable? In 



that hall the captive mind of an in- 
credible entity — a half-plastic denizen of 
the hollow interior of an unknown trans- 
Plutonian planet eighteen million years 
in the future — had kept a certain thing 
which it had modeled from clay. 

I shut my eyes and put my hand to 
my head in a vain, pitiful effort to drive 
these insane dream fragments from my 
consciousness. Then, for the first time 
I felt acutely the coolness, motion, and 
dampness of the surrounding air. Shud- 
dering, I realized that a vast chain of 
aeon-dead black gulfs must indeed be 
yawning somewhere beyond and below 
me. 

I thought of the frightful chambers 
and corridors and inclines as I recalled 
them from my dreams. Would the way 
to the central archives still be open ? 
Again that driving fatality tugged in- 
sistently at my brain as I recalled the 
awesome records that once lay cased in 
those rectangular vaults of rustless 
metal. 

There, said the dreams and legends, 
had reposed the whole history, past and 
future, of the cosmic space-time con- 
tinuum — written by' captive minds from 
every orb and every age in the solar 
system. Madness, of course — but had 
I not now stumbled into a nighted world 
as mad as I? 

I thought of the locked metal shelves, 
and of the curious knob twistings needed 
to open each one. My own came vividly 
into my consciousness. How often had 
I gone through that intricate routine 
of varied turns and pressures in the 
Terrestrial vertebrate section on the low- 
est level ! Every detail was fresh and 
familiar. 

If there were such a vault as I had 
dreamed of, I could open it in a mo- 
ment. It was then that madness 
took me utterly. An instant later, and 
I was leaping and stumbling over the 
rocky debris toward the well-remem- 
bered incline to the depths below. 

AST— 9 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



145 



VII. 

FROM that point forward my im- 
pressions are scarcely to be relied on — 
indeed, I still possess a final, desperate 
hope that they all form parts of some 
demoniac dream or illusion born of 
delirium. A fever raged in my brain, 
and everything came to me through a 
kind of haze — sometimes only intermit- 
tently. 

The rays of my torch shot feebly 
into the engulfing blackness, bringing 
phantasmal flashes of hideously familiar 
walls and carvings, all blighted with the 
decay of ages. In one place a tremen- 
dous mass of vaulting had fallen, so 
that I had to clamber over a mighty 
mound of stones reaching almost to the 
ragged, grotesquely stalactited roof. 

It was all the ultimate apex of night- 
mare, "made worse by that blasjihemous 
tug of pseudomemory. One thing only 
was unfamiliar, and that was my own 
size in relation to the monstrous ma- 
sonry. I felt oppressed by a sense of 
unwonted smallness, as if the sight of 
these towering w'alls from a mere hu- 
man body was something wholly new 
and abnormal. Again and again I looked 
nervously down at myself, vaguely dis- 
turljed by the human form I possessed. 

Onward through the blackness of the 
abyss I leaped, plunged and staggered — 
often falling and bruising myself, and 
once nearly shattering my torch. Every 
stone and comer of that demoniac gulf 
was known to me, and at many points 
I stopped to cast beams of' light through 
choked and crumbling, yet familiar, 
archways. 

Some rooms had totally collapsed; 
others were bare, or debris-filled. In a 
few I saw masses of metal — some fairly 
intact, some broken, and some crushed 
or battered — which I recognized as the 
colossal pedestals or tables of my 
dreams. What they could in truth have 
been, I dared not guess. 

I found the downward incline and be- 

AST— 10 



gan its descent^though after a time 
halted by a gaping, ragged chasm whose 
narrowest point could not be much less 
than four feet across. Here the stone- 
work had fallen through, revealing in- 
calculable inky depths beneath. 

. I knew there were two more cellar 
levels in this titan edifice, and trembled 
with fresh panic as I recalled the metal- 
clamped trapdoor on the lowest one. 
There could be no guards now — for 
vyhat had lurked beneath had long since 
done its hideous work and sunk into its 
long decline. By the time of the jwst- 
human beetle race it would be quite dead. 
.A^nd yet, as I thought of the native 
legends, I trembled anew. 

It cost me a terrible effort to vault 
that yawning chasm, since the littered 
floor prevented a running start — but 
madness drove me on. I chose a place 
close to the left-hand wall — where the 
rift was least wide and the landing spot 
reasonably clear of dangerous debris — 
and after one frantic moment reached 
the other side in safety. 

At last, gaining the lower level, I 
stumbled on past the archway of the 
room of machines, within which were 
fantastic ruins of metal, half buried be- 
neath fallen vaulting. Everything was 
where I knew it would be, and I climbed 
confident!}' over the heaps which l^arred 
the entrance of a vast transverse cor- 
ridor. This, I realized, would take me 
under the city to the central archives. 

Endless ages seemed to unroll as I 
stumbled, leaped, and crawled along that 
debris-cluttered corridor. Now and 
then I could make out carvings on the 
age-stained walls — some familiar, others 
seemingly added since the period of my 
dreams. Since this was a subterrane 
house-connecting highway, there were 
no archways save when the route led 
through the lower levels of various 
buildings. 

At some of these intersections I 
turned aside long enough to look down 
well-remembered corridors and into well- 



146 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



remembered rooms. Twice only did I 
find any radical changes from what I 
had dreamed of — and in one of these 
cases I could trace the sealed-up out- 
lines of the archway I remembered. 

I SHOOK violently, and felt a curi- 
ous surge of retarding weakness as I 
steered a hurried and reluctant course 
through the crypt of one of those great 
windowless, ruined towers whose alien, 
basalt masonry bespoke a whispered and 
horrible origin. 

This primal vault was round and fully 
two hundred feet across, with nothing 
carved upon the dark-hued stonework. 
The floor was here free from anything 
save dust and sand, and I could see the 
apertures leading upward and downward. 
There were no stairs nor inclines — in- 
deed, my dreams had pictured those 
elder towers as wholly untouched by the 
fabulous Great Race. Those who had 
built them had not needed stairs or in- 
clines. 

In the dreams, the downward aperture 
had been tightly sealed and nervously 
guarded. Now it lay open — black and 
yawning, and giving forth a current of 
cool, damp air. Of what limitless cav- 
erns of eternal night might brood be- 
low, I would not permit myself to think. 

Later, clawing my way along a badly 
heaped section of the corridor, I reached 
a place where the roof had wholly caved 
in. The debris rose like a mountain, 
and I climbed up over it, passing through 
a vast, empty space where my torchlight 
could reveal neither walls nor vaulting. 
This, I reflected, must be the cellar of 
the house of the metal purveyors, front- 
ing on the third square not far from 
the archives. What had happened to it 
I could not conjecture. , 

I found the corridor again beyond the 
mountain of detritus and stone, but after 
a short distance encountered a wholly 
choked place where the fallen vaulting 
almost touched the perilously sagging 
ceiling. How I managed to wrench and 



tear aside enough blocks to afford a 
passage, and how I dared disturb the 
tightly packed fragments when the least 
shift of equilibrium might have brought 
down all the tons of superincumbent 
masonry to crush me to nothingness, I 
do not know. 

It was sheer madness that impelled 
and guided me — if, indeed, my whole 
underground adventure was not — as I 
hope — a hellish delusion or phase of 
dreaming. But I did make — or dream 
that I made — a passage that I could 
squirm through. As I wriggled over 
the mound of debris — my torch, 
switched continuously on, thrust deeply 
in my mouth — I felt myself torn by the 
fantastic stalactites of the jagged floor 
above me. 

I was now close to the great under- 
ground archival structure which seemed 
to form my goal. Sliding and clamber- 
ing down the farther side of the bar- 
rier, and picking my way along the 
remaining stretch of corridor with hand- 
held, intermittently flashing torch, I 
came at last to a low, circular crypt with 
arches — still in a marvelous state of 
preservation — opening off on every side. 

The walls, or such parts of them as 
lay within reach of my torchlight, were 
densely hieroglyphed and chiseled with 
typical curvilinear symbols — some added 
since the period of my dreams. 

This, I realized, was my fated desti- 
nation, and I turned at once through a 
familiar archway on my left. That I 
could find a clear passage up and down 
the incline to all the surviving levels, 
I had, oddly, little doubt. This vast. 
Earth-protected pile, housing the annals 
of all the solar .system, had been built 
with supernal skill and strength to last 
as long as that system itself. 

Blocks of stupendous size poised with 
mathematical genius and bound with ce- 
ments of incredible toughness, had com- 
bined to form a mass as firm as the 
planet’s rocky core. Here, after ages 
more prodigious than I could sanely 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



147 



grasp, its buried bulk stood in all its es- 
sential contours, the vast, dust-drifted 
floors scarce sprinkled with the litter 
elsewhere so dominant. 

THE relatively easy walking from 
this point onward went curiously to my 
head. All the frantic eagerness hitherto 
frustrated by obstacles now took itself 
out in a kind of febrile speed, and I lit- 
erally raced along the low-roofed, mon- 
strously well-remembered aisles beyond 
the archway. 

I was past being astonished by the 
familiarity of what I saw. On every 
hand the great hieroglyphed metal shelf 
doors loomed monstrously; some yet in 
place, others sprung open, and still 
others bent and buckled under bygone 
geological stresses not quite strong 
enough to shatter the titan masonry. 

Here and there a dust-covered heap 
beneath a gaping, empty shelf seemed 
to indicate where cases had been shaken 
down by Earth tremors. On occasional 
pillars were great symbols and letters 
proclaiming classes and subclasses of 
volumes. 

Once I paused before an open vault 
where I saw some of the accustomed 
metal cases still in position amidst the 
omnipresent gritty dust. Reaching up, 
I dislodged one of the thinner specimens 
with some difficulty, and rested it on 
the floor for inspection. It was titled 
in the prevailing curvilinear hieroglyphs, 
though something in the arrangement 
of the character seemed subtly unusual. 

The odd mechanism of the hooked 
fastener was perfectly well known to 
me, and I snapped up the still rustless 
and workable lid and drew out the book 
within. The latter, as expected, was 
some twenty by fifteen inches in area, 
and two inches thick; the thin metal 
covers opening at the top. 

Its tough cellulose pages seemed un- 
affected by the myriad cycles of time 
they had lived through, and I studied 
the queerly pigmented, brush-drawn let- 



ters of the text — symbols unlike either 
the usual curved hieroglyphs or any 
alphabet known to human scholarship — 
with a haunting, half-aroused memory. 

It came to me that this was the lan- 
guage used by a captive mind I had 
known slightly, in my dreams — a mind 
from a large asteroid on which had sur- 
vived much of the archaic life and lore 
of the primal planet whereof it formed 
a fragrant. At the same time I recalled 
that this level of the archives was de- 
voted to volumes dealing with the non- 
Terrestrial planets. 

As I ceased poring over this incredible 
document I saw that the light of my 
torch was beginning to fail, hence 
quickly inserted the e.xtra battery I al- 
ways had with me. Then, armed with 
the stronger radiance, I resumed my 
feverish racing through unending tan- 
gles of aisles and corridors — recogniz- 
ing now and then some familiar shelf, 
and vaguely annoyed by the acoustic 
conditions which made my footfalls echo 
incongruously in these catacombs. 

The very prints of my shoes behind 
me in the millennially untrodden dust 
made me shudder. Never before, if my 
mad dreams held anything of truth, had 
human feet pressed upon those im- 
memorial pavements. 

Of the particular goal of my insane 
racing, my conscious mind held no liint. 
There was, however, some force of evil 
potency pulling at my dazed will and 
buried recollection, so that I vaguely 
felt I was not running at random. 

I CAME to a downward incline and 
followed it to profounder depths. 
Floors flashed by me as I raced, but 
I did not pause to explore them. In 
my whirling brain there had begun to 
beat a certain rhythm which set my 
right hand twitching in unison. I wanted 
to unlock something, and felt that I 
knew all the intricate twists and pres- 
sures needed to do it. It would be like 
a modem safe with a combination lock. 



148 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



Dream or not, I had once known and 
still knew. How any dream — or any 
scrap of unconsciously absorbed legend 
— could liave taught me a detail so 
minute, so intricate, and so complex, I 
did not attempt to explain to myself. 
I was beyond all coherent thought. For 
was not this whole experience — this 
shocking familiarity with a set of un- 
known ruins, and this monstrously exact 
identity of everything before me with 
what only dreams and scraps of myth 
could have suggested — a horror beyond 
all reason? 

Probably it was my basic conviction 
then — as it is now during my saner mo- 
ments — that I was not awake at all, and 
that the entire buried city was a frag- 
ment of febrile hallucination. 

Eventually, I reached the lowest level 
and struck off to the right of the in- 
cline. For some shadowy reason I tried 
to soften my steps, even though I lost 
speed thereby. There was a space I was 
afraid to cross on this last, deeply buried 
floor. 

As I drew near it I recalled what 
thing in that space I feared. It was 
merely one of the metal-barred and 
closely guarded trapdoors. There would 
be no guards now, and on that account 
I trembled and tiptoed as I had done in 
passing through that black basalt vault 
where a similar trapdoor had yawned. 

I felt a current of cool, damp air as 
I had felt there, and wished that my 
course led in another direction. Why 
I had to take the particular course I 
was taking, I did not know. 

When I came to the space I saw that 
the trapdoor )'awned widely open. 
Ahead, the shelves began again, and I 
glimpsed on the floor before one of 
them a heap very thinly covered with 
dust, where a number of cases had re- 
cently fallen. At the same moment a 
fresh wave of panic clutched me, though 
for some time I could not discover why. 

Heaps of fallen cases were not un- 
common, for all through the aeons this 



lightless labyrinth had been racked by 
the heavings of Earth and had echoed 
at intervals to the deafening clatter of 
toppling objects. It was only when I 
was nearly across the space that I real- 
ized why I shook so violently. 

Not the heap, but something about 
the dust of the level floor, was troubling 
me. In the light of my torch it seemed 
as if that dust were not as even as it 
ought to be — there were places where it 
looked thinner, as if it had been dis- 
turbed not many months before. I 
could not be sure, for even the appar- 
ently thinner places were dusty enough ; 
yet a certain suspicion of regularity in 
the fancied unevenness was highly dis- 
quieting. 

When I brought the torchlight close 
to one of the queer places I did not like 
what I saw — for the illusion of regu- 
larity became very great. It was as if 
there were regular lines of composite 
impressions — impressions that went in 
threes, each slightly over a foot square, 
and consisting of five nearly circular 
three-inch prints, one in advance of the 
other four. 

These possible lines of foot-square 
impressions appeared to lead in two di- 
rections, as if something had gone some- 
where and returned. They were, of 
course, very faint, and may have been 
illusions or accidents; but there was an 
element of dim, fumbling terror about 
the way I thought they ran. For at 
one end of them was the heap of cases 
which must have clattered down not 
long before, while at the other end 
was the ominous trapdoor with the cool, 
damp wind, yawning unguarded down 
to abysses past imagination. 

VIII. 

THAT my strange sense of com- 
pulsion was deep and overwhelming is 
shown by its conquest of my fear. No 
rational motive could have drawn me 
on after that hideous suspicion nf prints 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



149 



and the creeping dream memories it ex- 
cited. Yet my right hand, even as it 
shook with fright, still twitched rhyth- 
mically in its eagerness to turn a lock 
it hoped to find. Before I knew it I 
was past the heap of lately fallen cases 
and running on tiptoe through aisles of 
utterly unbroken dust toward a point 
which I seemed to know morbidly, hor- 
ribly well. 

My mind was asking itself questions 
whose origin and relevancy I was only 
beginning to guess. Would the shelf 
be reachable by a human body? Could 
my human hand master all the aeon- 
remembered motions of the lock? 
Would the lock be undamaged and 
workable? And what would I do — 
what dare I do — with what — as I now 
commenced to realize — I both hoped and 
feared to find? Would it prove the 
awesome, brain-shattering truth of some- 
thing past normal conception, or show 
only that I was dreaming? 

The next I knew I had ceased my tip- 
toed racing and was standing still, star- 
ing at a row of maddeningly familiar 
hieroglyphed shelves. They were in a 
state of almost perfect preservation, and 
only three of the doors in this vicinity 
had sprung open. 

My feelings toward these shelves can- 
not be described — so utter and insistent 
was the sense of old acquaintance. I 
was looking high up at a row near the 
top and wholly out of my reach, and 
wondering how I could climb to best 
advantage. An open door four rows 
from the bottom would help, and the 
locks of the closed doors formed pos- 
sible holds for hands and feet. I would 
grip the torch between my teeth, as I 
had in other places where both hands 
were needed. Above all I must make 
no noise. 

How to get down what I wished to 
remove would be difficult, but I could 
probably hook its movable fastener in 
my coat collar and carry it like a knap- 
sack. Again I wondered whether the 



lock would be undamaged. That I 
could repeat each familiar motion I had 
not the least doubt. But I hoped the 
thing would not scrape or creak — and 
that my hand could work it properly. 

Even as I thought these things I had 
taken the torch in my mouth and begun 
to climb. The projecting locks were 
poor supports; but, as I had expected, 
the opened shelf helped greatly. I used 
both the swinging door and the edge of 
the aperture itself in my ascent, and 
managed to avoid any loud creaking. 

Balanced on the upper edge of the 
door, and leaning far to my right, I 
could just reach the lock I sought. My 
fingers, half numb from climbing, were 
very clumsy at first ; but I soon saw 
that they were anatomically adequate. 
And the memory rhythm was strong in 
them. 

Out of unknown gulfs of time the 
intricate, secret motions had somehow 
reached my brain correctly in every de- 
tail — for after less than five minutes 
of trying there came a click whose fa- 
miliarity was all the more startling be- 
cause I had not consciously anticipated 
it. In another instant the metal door 
was slowly swinging open with only 
the faintest grating sound. 

DAZEDLY I looked over the row of 
grayish case ends thus exposed, and felt 
a tremendous surge of some wholly in- 
explicable emotion. Just within reach 
of my right hand was a case who.se 
curving hieroglyphs made me shake 
with a pang infinitely more complex 
than one of mere fright. Still shaking. 
I managed to dislodge it amidst a shower 
of gritty flakes, and ease it over toward 
myself without any violent noise. 

Like the other case I had handled, it 
was slightly more than twenty by fifteen 
inches in size, with curved mathematical 
designs in low relief. In thickness it 
just exceeded three inches. 

Crudely wedging it between myself 
and the surface I was climbing, I fum- 



150 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



bled with the fastener and finally got 
the hook free. Lifting the cover, I 
shifted the heavy object to my back, and 
let the hook catch hold of my collar. 
Hands now free, I awkwardly clambered 
down to the dusty floor and prepared 
to inspect my prize. 

Kneeling in the gritty dust, I swung 
the case around and rested it in front 
of me. My hands shook, and I dreaded 
to draw out the book within almost as 
much as I longed — and felt compelled 
— to do so. It had very gradually be- 
come clear to me what I ought to find, 
and this realization nearly paralyzed my 
faculties. 

If the thing were there — and if I 
were not dreaming — the implications 
would be quite beyond the power of the 
human spirit to bear. What tormented 
me most was my momentary inability 
to feel that my surroundings were a 
dream. The sense of reality was 
hideous — and again becomes so as I 
recall the scene. 

At length I tremblingly pulled the 
book from its container and stared fasci- 
natedly at the well-known hieroglyphs 
on the cover. It seemed to be in prime 
condition, and the curvilinear letters of 
the title held me in almost as hypnotized 
a state as if I could read them. In- 
deed, I cannot swear that I did not 
actually read them in some transient 
and terrible access of abnormal memory. 

I do not know how long it was be- 
fore I dared to lift that thin metal 
cover. I temporized and made excuses 
to myself. I took the torch from my 
mouth and shut it oflf to save the bat- 
tery. Then, in the dark, I collected my 
courage — finally lifting the cover with- 
out turning on the light. Last of all, 
I did indeed flash the torch upon the 
exposed page — steeling myself in ad- 
vance to suppress any sound no matter 
what I should find. 

I looked for an instant, then almost 
collapsed. Clenching my teeth, how- 
ever, I kept silent. I sank wholly to the 



floor and put a hand to my forehead 
amidst the engulfing blackness. What 
I dreaded and expected was there. 
Either I was dreaming, or time and 
space had become a mockery. 

I must be dreaming- — but I would 
test the horror by carrying this thing 
back and .showing it to my son if it 
were indeed a reality. My head swam 
frightfully, even though there were no 
visible objects in the unbroken gloom to 
swirl alx)ut me. Ideas and images of 
the starkest terror — excited by the vistas 
which my glimpse had opened up — be- 
gan to throng in upon me and cloud my 
senses. 

I thought of those possible prints in 
the dust, and trembled at the sound of 
my own breathing as I did so. Once 
again I flashed on the light and looked 
at the page as a serpent’s victim may 
look at his destroyer’s eyes and fangs. 

Then, with clumsy fingers, in the 
dark, I closed the book, put it in its 
container, and snapped the lid and the 
curious, hooked fastener. This was 
what I must carry back to the outer 
world if it truly existed — if the whole 
abyss truly existed — if I, and the world 
itself, truly existed. 

JUST when I tottered to my feet and 
commenced my return I cannot be 
certain. It came to me oddly— as a 
measure of my sense of separation from 
the normal world — that I did not even 
once look at my watch during those 
hideous hours underground. 

Torch in hand, and with the ominous 
case under one arm, I eventually found 
myself tiptoeing in a kind of silent panic 
past the draft-giving abyss and those 
lurking suggestions of prints. I less- 
ened my precautions as I climbed up the 
endless inclines, but could not shake off 
a shadow of apprehension which I had 
not felt on the downward journey. 

I dreaded having to repass through 
that black basalt crypt that was older 
than the city itself, where cold drafts 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



151 



welled up from unguarded depths. I 
thought of that which the Great Race 
had feared, and of what might still be 
lurking — be it ever so weak and dying 
— ^down there. I thought of those five- 
circle prints and of what my dreams 
had told me of such prints — and of 
strange winds and whistling noises asso- 
ciated with them. And I thought of 
the tales of the modern blackfellows, 
wherein the horror of great winds and 
nameless subterrane ruins was dwelt 
upon. 

I knew from a carven wall symbol the 
right floor to enter, and came at last — 
after passing that other book I had ex- 
amined — to the great circular space with 
the branching archways. On my right, 
and at once recognizable, was the arch 
through which I had arrived. This I 
now entered, conscious that the rest of 
my course would be harder because of 
the tumbled state of the. masonry out- 
side the archive building. My new 
metal-cased burden weighed upon me, 
and I found it harder and harder to be 
quiet as I stumbled among debris and 
fragments of every sort. 

Then I came to the ceiling-high mound 
of debris through which I had wrenched 
a scanty passage. My dread at wrig- 
gling through again was infinite, for my 
first passage had made some noise, and 
I now — after seeing those possible 
prints — dreaded sound above all things. 
The case, too, doubled the problem of 
traversing the narrow crevice. 

But I clambered up the barrier as best 
I could, and pushed the case through 
the aperture ahead of me. Then, torch 
in mouth, I scrambled through myself — 
my back torn as before by stalactites. 

As I tried to grasp the case again, 
it fell some distance ahead of me down 
the slope of the debris, making a dis- 
turbing clatter and arousing echoes 
which sent me into a cold perspiration. 
I lunged for it at once, and regained it 
without further noise — but a moment 
afterward the slipping of blocks under 



my feet raised a sudden and unprece- 
dented din. 

That din was my undoing. For, 
falsely or not, I thought I heard it an- 
swered in a terrible way from spaces 
far behind me. I thought I heard a 
shrill, whistling sound, like nothing else 
on Earth, and beyond any adequate 
verbal description. If so, what fol- 
lowed has a certain grim irony — since, 
save for the panic of this thing, the sec- 
ond thing might never have happened. 

As it was, my frenzy was absolute 
and unrelieved. Taking my torch in 
my hand and clutching feebly at the 
case, I leaped and bounded wildly ahead 
with no idea in my brain beyond a mad 
desire to race out of these nightmare 
ruins to the waking world of desert and 
Moonlight which lay so far above. 

I hardly knew it when I reached the 
mountain of debris which towered into 
the vast blackness beyond the caved-in 
roof, and bruised and cut myself re- 
peatedly in scrambling up its steep slope 
of jagged blocks and fragments. 

Then came the great disaster. Just 
as I blindly crossed the summit, unpre- 
pared for the sudden dip ahead, my feet 
slipped utterly and I found myself in- 
volved in a mangling avalanche of slid- 
ing masonry whose cannon-loud uproar 
split the black, cavern air in a deafen- 
ing series of Earth-shaking reverbera- 
tions. 

I HAVE no recollection of emerging 
from this chaos, but a momentary frag- 
ment of consciousness shows me as 
plunging and tripping and scrambling 
along the corridor amidst the clangor — 
case and torch still with me. 

Then, just as I approached that primal 
basalt crypt I had so dreaded, utter mad- 
ness came. For as the echoes of the 
avalanche died down, there became 
audible a repetition of that frightful 
alien whistling I thought I had heard 
before. This time there was no doubt 
about it — and what was worse, it came 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



152 

from a point not behind but ahead 
of me. 

Probably I shrieked aloud then. I 
have a dim picture of myself as flying 
through the hellish basalt vault of the 
elder things, and hearing that damnable 
alien sound piping up from the open, 
unguarded door of limitless nether 
blacknesses. There was a wind, too — 
not merely a cool, damp draft, but a 
violent, purposeful blast belching sav- 
agely and frigidly from that abominable 
gulf whence the obscene whistling came. 

There are memories of leaping and 
lurching over obstacles of every sort, 
with that torrent of wind and shrieking 
sound growing moment by moment, and 
seeming to curl and twist purposefully 
around me as it struck out wickedly 
from the spaces behind and beneath. 

Though in my rear, that wind had 
the odd effect of hindering instead of 
aiding my progress; as if it acted like 
a noose or lasso thrown around me. 
Heedless of the noise I made, I clat- 
tered over a great barrier of blocks 
and was again in the structure that led 
to the surface. 

I recall glimpsing the archway to the 
room of machines and almost crying out 
as I saw the incline leading down to 
where one of those blasphemous trap- 
doors must be yawning two levels be- 
low. But instead of crying out I mut- 
tered over and over to myself that this 
was all a dream from which I must 
soon wake. Perhaps I was in camp — 
perhaps I was at home in Arkham. As 
these hopes bolstered up my sanity I 
began to mount the incline to the higher 
level. 

I knew, of course, that I had the four- 
foot cleft to recross, yet was too racked 
by other fears to realize the full horror 
until I came almost upon it. On my 
descent, the leap across had been easy — 
but could I clear the gap as readily 
when going uphill, and hampered by 
fright, exhaustion, the weight of the 
metal case, and the anomalous backward 



tug of that demon wind? I thought of 
these things at the last moment, and 
thought also of the nameless entities 
which might be lurking in the black 
abysses below the chasm. 

My wavering torch was growing 
feeble, but I could tell by some obscure 
memory when I neared the cleft. The 
chill blasts of wind and the nauseous 
whistling shrieks behind me were for 
the moment like a merciful opiate, dull- 
ing my imagination to the horror of the 
yawning gulf ahead. And then I be- 
came aware of the added blasts and 
whistling in front of me — tides of 
abomination surging up through the 
cleft itself from depths unimagined and 
unimaginable. 

Now, indeed, the essence of pure 
nightmare was upon me. Sanity de- 
parted — and, ignoring everything ex- 
cept the animal impulse of flight, I 
merely Struggled and plunged upward 
over the incline’s debris as if no gulf 
had existed. Then I saw the chasm’s 
edge, leaped frenziedly with every ounce 
of strength I possessed, and was in- 
stantly engulfed in a pandemoniac 
vortex of loathsome sound and utter, 
materially tangible blackness. 

THAT IS the end of my experience, 
so far as I can recall. Any further 
impressions belong wholly to the domain 
of phantasmagoric delirium. Dream, 
madness, and memory merged wildly 
together in a series of fantastic, frag- 
mentary delusions which can have no 
relation to anything real. 

There was a hideous fall through in- 
calculable leagues of viscous, sentient 
darkness, and a babel of noises utterly 
alien to all that we know of the Earth 
and its organic life. Dormant, rudi- 
mentary senses seemed to start into 
vitality within me, telling of pits and 
voids peopled by floating horrors and 
leading to sunless crags and oceans and 
teeming cities of windowless, basalt 
towers upon which no light ever shone. 



THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME 



153 



Secrets of the primal planet and its 
immemorial aeons flashed through my 
brain without the aid of sight or sound, 
and there were known to me things 
which not even the wildest of my former 
dreams had ever suggested. .‘\nd all 
the while cold fingers of damp vapor 
clutched and picked at me, and that 
eldritch, damnable whistling shrieked 
fiendishly above all the alternations of 
babel and silence in the whirlpools of 
darkness around. 

Afterward there were visions of the 
Cyclopean city of my dreams — not in 
ruins, but just as I had dreamed of it. 
I was in my conical, nonhuman body 
again, and mingled with crowds of the 
Great Race and the captive minds who 
carried books up and down the lofty 
corridors and vast inclines. 

Then, superimposed upon these pic- 
tures, were frightful, momentary flashes 
of a nonvisual consciousness involving 
desperate struggles, a writhing free 
from clutching tentacles of whistling 
wind, an insane, batlike flight through 
half-solid air, a feverish burrowing 
through the cyclone-whipped dark, and 
a wild stumbling and scrambling over 
fallen masonry. 

Once there was a curious, intrusive 
flash of half sight — a faint, diffuse sus- 
picion of bluish radiance far overhead. 
Then there came a dream of wind-pur- 
sued climbing and crawling— of wrig- 
gling into a blaze of sardonic Moonlight 
through a jumble of debris which slid 
and collapsed after me admist a morbid 
hurricane. It was the evil, monotonous 
beating of that maddening Moonlight 
which at last told me of the return of 
what I had once known as the objective, 
waking world. 

I was clawing prone through the 
sands of the Australian desert, and 
around me shrieked such a tumult of 
wind as I had never before known on 
our planet’s surface. My clothing was 
in rags, and my whole body was a mass 
of bruises and scratches. 



Full consciousness returned very 
slowly, and at no time could I tell just 
where delirious dream left and true 
memory began. There had seemed to 
be a mound of titan blocks, an abyss be- 
neath it, a monstrous revelation from 
the past, and a nightmare horror at the 
end — but how much of this was real? 

My flashlight was gone, and likewise 
any metal case I may have discovered. 
Had there been such a case — or any 
abyss — or any mound? Raising mj- 
head, I looked behind me, and saw only 
the sterile, undulant sands of the desert. 

The demon wind died down, and the 
bloated, fungoid Moon sank reddeningl\ 
in the west. I lurched to my feet and 
began to stagger southwestward towar<l 
the camp. What in truth had happened 
to me? Had I merely collapsed in the 
desert and dragged a dream-racked body 
over miles of sand and buried blocks? 
If not, how could I bear to live an. 
longer ? 

For, in this new doubt, all my faith 
in the myth-born unreality of my visions 
dissolved once more into the hellish 
older doubting. If that abyss was reah 
then the Great Race was real — and its 
blasphemous reachings and seizures in 
the cosmos-wide vortex of time wer-' 
no myths or nightmares, but a terrible, 
soul-shattering actuality. 

HAD I, in full, hideous fact, been 
drawn back to a prehuman world of a 
hundred and fifty million years ago in. 
those dark, baffling days of the amnesia? 
Had my present body been the vehicle 
of a frightful alien consciousness from 
Paleogean gulfs of time? 

Had I, as the captive mind of those 
shambling horrors, indeed known that 
accursed city of stone in its primordial 
heyday, and wriggled down those fa 
miliar corridors in the loathsome shape 
of my captor? Were those tormenting 
dreams of more than twenty years the 
offspring of stark, monstrous memories? 



154 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



Had I once veritably talked with 
minds from reachless corners of time 
and space, learned the universe’s secrets, 
past and to come, and written the an- 
nals of my own world for the metal 
cases of those titan archives? And 
were those others — those shocking elder 
things of the mad winds and demon 
pipings — in truth a lingering, lurking 
menace, waiting and slowly weakening 
in black abysses while varied shapes of 
life drag out their multimillennial 
courses on the planet’s age-racked sur- 
face? 

I do not know. If that abyss and 
what it held were real, there is no hope. 
Then, all too truly, there lies upon this 
world of man a mocking and incredible 
shadow out of time. But, mercifully, 
there is no proof that these things are 
other than fresh phases of my myth- 
born dreams. I did not bring back the 
metal case that would have been a proof, 
and so far those subterrane corridors 
have not been found. 

If the laws of the uniyerse are kind, 
they will never be found. But I must 
tell my son what I saw or thought I 



saw, and let him use his judgment as 
a psychologist in gauging the reality of 
my experience, and communicating this 
account to others. 

I have said that the awful truth be- 
hind my tortured years of dreaming 
hinges absolutely upon the actuality of 
what I thought I saw in those Cyclo- 
pean, buried ruins. It has been hard 
for me, literally, to set down that crucial 
revelation, though no reader can have 
failed to guess it. Of course, it lay in 
that book within the metal case — the 
case which I pried out of its forgotten 
lair amidst the undisturbed dust of a 
million centuries. 

No eye had seen, no hand had 
touched that book since the advent of 
man to this planet. .'\nd yet, when I 
flashed my torch ujwn it in that fright- 
ful abyss, I saw that the queerly pig- 
mented letters on the brittle, aeon- 
btowned cellulose pages were not in- 
deed any nameless hieroglyphs of 
Earth’s youth. They were, instead, the 
letters of our familiar alphabet, spell- 
ing out the words of the English lan- 
guage. in my own handwriting. 




About Articles 
And Us 

I have a surprise for you this month. John W. Campbell’s 
articles on the solar system are starting in this issue. I didn’t expect 
they’d be ready for us before next month. And did you notice 
that Elliott Bold is illustrating them? That, I think, is good news, 
too. 

These articles will cover the general set-up of our solar system, 
then will discuss planet by planet what science has learned con- 
cerning our sister worlds. The scientific methods of observation 
will be described, and I’m certain that it will prove to be both a 
fascinating and instructive series. 

Incidentally, those of our readers who live near one of the 
nation’s “ planetariums” should make it a point to attend, at least 
once. It will give you a feeling of kinship with the universe and 
will help you to understand and enjoy science-fiction more thor- 
oughly. 

Judging by the preponderant percentage of approval in our 
readers’ letters, the April issue seems to have hit the spot. I hope 
that simply means that we are continuing our upward progress in 
story values and general interest. I believe it does, for surely we 
could not gather a finer group of authors than we offer in this issue: 
Lovecraft, Schachner, J. W. Campbell, Coblentz, Van Lome, Wil- 
liamson, and others! 

And next month “Pacifica” by Schachner will positively appear. 
Don A. Stuart comes back to us with a great novelette “Frictional 
Losses”; and A. R. Long, author of “Scandal in the Fourth Dimen- 
sion,” returns to Astounding with “A Leak in the Fountain of 
Youth.” And there are other stories which will go to make up an 
issue worthy of the event. 

Oh, I forgot to tell you : T he event is simply that next month’s 
issue brings the new Astounding under the Street & Smith banner, 
to the same age that the old Astounding had attained under the 
previous publisher. Naturally, I want the issue to be a knock-out. 
I want it to represent the terrific advance of the new over the old. 
Help me to make it a real advance in circulation, too, will you? 
I need your support, now. 

Progress is good, and must continue — but I’ve got to be able to 
justify my progressive steps by showing results. Publishers are 
willing to help so long as they feel the audience is definitely and 
positively behind the editor — and that means a distinct jump in the 
reading audience. 

Besides, it would be a wonderful way to celebrate next month, 
wouldn’t it? 



The Editor. 





AN OPEN FORUM 



LetiGet 
Down to 



TACKS 



A Change of Heart. 

Dear K<lttor: 

The April cover has compelled me to write a 
thlnl letter to AHtouudiiig Stories. 

It happened this way : After finishing the is- 
•ue — and a splendid one it was. too — i turned 
to Brass Tacks. I came, innocently enough, 
upon a letter that attracted my attention. 
“Why,” I said to myself, “this fellow’s thoughts 
coincide e.\actly with what I’ve been thinking.” 
Then, the bun that I had been dunking dropped 
from my gaping mouth as I saw who had writ- 
ten the letter. It was my own! 

When I wrote that lovely poison-pen missive, 
I was glaring at a gaudy, misleading cover. 
Since seeing the April cover by Howard Brown, 
however. I have had a complete change of heart. 
That job was just what I was referring to when 
I sahl, ’SThe beautifully harmonious illustra- 
tions* of- yesteryear.” 

Although once again the indispensable rocket 
ship was there, the simple clearness of the 
cover’s pattern made a lasting impression on 
me. No loud, clashing colors; merel.v a clear- 
Idue !>ackground tlint removed immediately all 
thoughts that this was just another pulp maga- 
*ine. Thanks a million, artist Brown — you de- 
serve ami live up to the title “artist.” 

A brief word about the stories : Please don’t 

listen to those fellows who demand serials, 
longer novelettes and fewer short stories. The 
shorts are nearly always the finest of all. They 
are never ledi(uis an<l every one has a surprise 
ending that is delightful. 

Say, am I really writing this? I thought I 
w’jis a critic and a cynic. So long, and best of 
luck ! — Jerry Turner, Kohut, Harrison, New 
York. 



There’s Always Room for Improvement. 

Pear Editor: 

I have been reading Astounding Stories since 
It first appeared upon the market. I hailed the 
first issue as the beginning of a new ora in 
seicnce-fietlon. And I was right. From the 
first. I was almost, if not completely satisfied 
with vour magazine, or at least, so I thought 
at the time. In short, I have always thought 



Astounding to be very nearly perfect. And 
then came 3936 and the January issue. 

Strange City by Warner Van Lome and The 
Isotope Men by Schaohner were both as far 
above the former standard of Astounding as 
that magazine is above its nearest competitor! 
And the February w'ith the first part of At the 
Mountains of Madyxessl Truly that story will 
make history. Lovecraft, while lacking in ability 
to create vivid characters is excelled only by 
Kdgar Allen Poe in creating a desired mood in 
his readers. His masterful description and his 
repetition of certain themes, casts an almost 
hypnotic trance upon the reader which persists 
long after the story is finished. 

Tl>en cajne the March issue with Entropy by 
Scliaehner. And still I was so dumfounded at 
finding that the Astounding prior to ’36 could 
lie improved upon that I could not muster my 
faculties enough to write you. 

And then came April ! The cover alone Is 
enough to compensate for the worst story ever 
written. But no such compensation is neces- 
sary. Every story in the April issue Is slated to 
become a classic. Lovecraft even supersedes his 
first two parts of At the Mountain of Madness, 
and in the same issue we have Binder and his 
Spawn of Eternal Thought, which ranks with the 
best; even In this, the first part, which in most 
serials is a bit dry. 

But, to top it all off. you announce the com- 
ing of .Tack Williamson and The Comeieers, a 
sequel to The Legion of Space which is, in my 
opinion, the greatest serial ever to appear in a 
science-fiction or any other type of magazine. 

All in all, the April issue can be said to be 
the tops as far as literature can go. Indeed, 
it is so great that It forced me to write this 
letter in appreciation. Even though Astounding 
has always been good, .vou have improved It 
until I can see little room for any more im- 
provement. 

And now for a few requests. First, let’s have 
a sequel for Strange City, one for Entropy, and 
one for The Cosmo Trap. 

Second, go back in your files to the July, 1934, 
issue and look over Before Earth Came by John 
Russell Fearn. Then give us another story like 
It. That story ranks as high with me as does 
a novelette or The Legion of Space. 

Third, continue making Astounding as good 
as the last four issues — January through April. 



BRASS TACKS 



157 



Fourth, five us another cover like Brown’s flori- 
ous rhapsody in blue and silver on the April 
cover. — j«mes L. Russell, 1120 Clement Ave., 
Charlotte, North Carolina. 



A Heguffst for More Realism. 

Dear Editor: 

Many thanks for the excellent serial by H. P. 
Lovecraft, and 1 hope that Astounding will 
print many more. What about a sequel to At 
the Mountains of Madntsst 

Other stories that I particularly liked were 
The Shapes and The Cosmo Trap. May I, as 
a newcomer, plead for more realism? Mr. 
Favre outlines the case in your March issue, 
and I believe that his letter deserves attention. 
Astounding Is doing things for science-fiction." 
Duane W. RImel, Box 100, Asotin, Washington. 



We Like Opinions* 

Dear Editor : 

Now that Astounding Stories stamlK praeti- 
oally alone in the science-fiction field, and nl^o 
on top of the heap, I thought I'd write in niy 
opinions to Brass Tacks for what they are 
worth. Yes, I know what they’re worth. A 
while back 1 remember it would be a waste of 
time and money to walk to the news stands to 
purchase a copy. Now, however, I’M Jet the 
remainder of this letter speak for itKelf. 

All in all, the contents are well-iyalaneed, 
neither the adventure nor the thought -variants 
dominating the type of story to be found in the 
magazine. So you see. It is setting a high stand- 
ard for the other magazines to follow. 

However, you need something to capture the 
readers interest and hold it. You could leave it 
to the fans themselves to pick out the type of 
department they would be most interested in. 
Certainly you might grant one of the requests 
made by a large number of fans, i. e. writing 
editorial comments after each letter in Brass 
Tacks. 

^>ay, when am I ever going to see a cover by 
Wesso? Marchloni is good, but he is not con- 
sistently so. However, he is appreciated. In 
fact, each of your art staff has a peculiar quality 
of his own, though not particularly fitted for 
science-fiction illustrating. That is, all except 
Dold ; the only magazine he could possibly il- 
lustrate would be one that contains horror tales 
and the like. 

One of the best stories that I have ever read 
is Strange City by Van Lome. He sure can put 
A story over. In fact, that piece of writing 
fairly clamors for a sequel — and we won’t stop 
clamoring until we get one. 

At the Mountains of Madness would have 
been very good if Lovecraft hadn’t overdone It 
by describing the walls and murals, etc. The 
ending was altogether boring and not up to 
average. Please let's not have another such 
failure going under the alias of a serial. 

Entropy was very good and well up to the 
author’s standard. Sequels seem to be in the 
air so why not one here? It would sure come 
in right handy. The Shapes also had some- 
thing about it that was different. Mr. Miller 
paints his characters vividly for such a short- 
short tale. 

Spawn of Eternal Thought bolds promise of 
being the best serial in quite some time. Binder 
is better in serials than in shorts. — Gene 
Noguere, 3021 Laconia Ave., New York, New 
York. 



A CoTTection. 

Dear Editor : 

In a recent editorial, you remarked that 
Fantasy was the only printed fan magazine. 
This is not true and I should like to correct the 
error for your readers. 

There are two other such fan magazines now 



being printed at fairly regular intervals. These 
are the Phentagraph of the Terrestrial Faiitn- 
science Guild, and the Seience-Fiction Critic, au 
inde|>endent publication. 

Unlike Fantasy, the Science-Fiction Critic is 
not a magazine devoted primarily to giving 
news of activities in various science-fiction cir- 
cles. On the contrary, the entire magazine is 
given over to a critical aspect of stories, fan 
activities, and the trends of science-fiction as a 
whole. 

Each Issue contains detailed reviews of all 
fans and professional science-fiction magazines, 
book criticisms, movie reviews, articles, and in- 
terviews with authors and fans. Circulation is 
between 75 and 100 copies monthly. The Crifir 
contains ten or twelve pages and sells for five 
cents per copy. Thank you. — Claire P. Beck, 
Science Fiction Critic, 214 East Seventh St., 
Reno, Nevada. 



On Artists and Imagination, 

Dear Mr. Tremaine : 

How can any one say that Howard Brown 
has uo imagination? His illustrations for At 
the Mountains of Madness gave that story a 
distinct air that made Lovecraft’s superb style 
all (he more enjoyable. 

Wesso gets more like his old self with each 
drawing. Let him do some space ships, ma- 
chinery and alien beings. His technique has im- 
proved immensely since bis last Bcience-fiction 
illustration. 

Frankly, Mr. Tremaine, there has never been 
a belter issue — and I mean it. Spawn of Eternal 
Thought will be a record breaker. That's a 
prophecy. 

Marchloui's figure work, although tremen- 
dousiy improved, is still stiff and angular. But 
I’ll wager Lawler has told him that a hundred 
times. Nevertheless, he’s still your worst il- 
lustrator 

I’d like to see Leo Morey in your pages. With 
the possible exclusion of Brown he has more real 
Conception of the science-fiction drawing than 
auy one else. 

Rut in praising Brown, don’t get the idea 
that I like his covers. 1 don’t. I’ll tell you 
why. In black and white, Brown gets dis- 
tance, life and mystery in his work. But in 
color work, he just cannot compare with Wesso. 
I suppose the cover for April was blue for news- 
stand purposes — but it looks poor from the 
artistic ^oint of view. That excellently done 
space ship would have been literally beautiful in 
its natural setting. 

Kill the artists who don’t sign their work. 
And when pseudonyms arc used, give us a tip 
somewhere as to the real identity. 

So I’ll cut before I get too trite, with an- 
other plea for a quarterly. 1 feel that if we 
keep on hammering, we’ll eventually get a quar- 
terly, just as we got smooth edges after a half 
dozen years of harping. — Lew Torrance. 1118 
Fifth Ave., Winfield, Kansas. 



He Says the 1936 Issues Are Better, 

Dear Editor : 

The magazine was what I would call a very 
worthwhile object this third mouth of the year 
1836. The cover of the April edition was ex- 
ceptional and the edges — what edges ! I couldn’t 
have done better myself. 

Since you have granted all our wishes, it’s 
time to think up some new ones. So here's my 
first one. Why not put our editorial page at 
the first of the magazine, or just in front of 
Brass Tacks? 

As month after month passes we will regret 
Stanley Weinbaum's death even more. His 
passing marked the end of a promise of a grand 
series of stories in The Red Peri. May the mem- 
ory of Weinbaum and bis science-fiction go down 
through the space of time forever. 

I have purchased the April issue of Astound- 
ing Stories and, although I haven’t read a single 



158 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



story, tlie illustrations seem to show the stories 
at least up to par. 1 have been keeping up 
with At the Mountainn of MndncBS and I hope 
the ending is as interesting as the iirst part of 
the story. 

As I said In my first letter, I hope for a sequel 
to strange Vity- I’m sure every one would like 
to know more about that strange world. Stop- 
ping the story there is like cutting some one* off 
in the middle of an interesting sentence. I am 
glad to see a sequel to The Hon of Old Faithful 
in the April issue. 

In regard to the issues of the year 1936, they 
are excellent so far. The stories are above av- 
erage, and I am looking for ones of the same 
type for the rest of the year. 

JUathematira was good, and I'm looking for- 
ward to its sequel : Mathcmatica Pin*. I also 
liked the end of Hhie Magiv very much. 

I agree with all those letters wanting Hawk 
Carse back. That was one of the greatest 
series of science stories I know. 

About Van Houten's suggestion to put 
Astounding Stories on the radio. I think that 
would be an exeellent idea. Aside from adver- 
tising the muga/.i'ne immensely, it would a 
great program. — Calvin Fine, Box 441. Kilgore, 
Texas. 



Another Boon for Brown. 

Hear Mr. Tremaine: 

The April issue was full of surprises. I think 
Howard V. Brown surprised you by painting 
an image of Saturn in the upper, right-band 
corner of the cover: this fixed It so that you 
couldn’t put the 20c sign there, and you had 
to put it somewhere in a less conspicuous place. 
Turn around. Mr. Brown, so I can pat your back. 

He surprised me, too, by turning out a really 
fine interior illustration for Binder’s Spotrn of 
Eternal Thought. It’s not often that his in- 
terior drawings merit any praise ; the only other 
ones that I’ve liked were the illustrations for 
bavey Jone.ft* Auiha»mdor. 

Oalliin’s Child of the Sfarg disappointed me; 
but, after all, no sequel could capture the ap- 
peal that the original story. Old Faithful, had. 
Outlatrs on CalliBto se«*iued to be a carbon copy 
of The Red Perl for the first half of the story, 
but there the similarity censed. The rest was 
distinct and original — making it the finest story 
in the Issue. 

Van Iionie’s White Adventure came in second. 
The only fault that I found with the story was 
the omission of any explanation as to the origin 
of the mysterious unmeltable snow. How’ever, 
keep your eye on thnt fellow Van Lome; maybe 
vre have a st^eond Weinbaum in the making. 

Oh. hoy! A sequel to The Legion of Spare! 
But that means that I'm going to have to wait 
for a full half year before I can start the serial. 
Darn it ! 

And now to get down to my monthly butting- 
Into-other-people’s-business. In other words, I’m 
g(»una attempt to answ’er some of the letters in 
Brass Tacks. A poor substitute for an edi- 
torial comment, but 

Wolford ; I’ll cast my vote with yon for a 
return of the artist Muller; he bad a distinctly 
original style which should grace the pages of 
Astounding Stories at least once every month. 
A futuristic artist for a futuristic magazine. 

Watson : The present-day scientists may be 

old-fashioned, mistaken, and stubborn in some 
respects, but I’d feel safer sticking to what my 
dear old physics teacher said than to the super- 
stitious ’seudoscientific stuff that Fort wrote. 
By the way, if his Lo! affected you in such a 
manner, you should read his Wifd Talent. 
Whew ! 

Hall : By reading between the lines, so to 

speak, I come to the coiiclu.sion that there are 
still a few Improvements to be made in good 
ol' Astounding. 

Mr. Palmer: You can count me in on the 

Stanley G. Weinbaum memorial. 

.Johnson: I’ll slick up for the editor in com- 

paring The Red Peri with Hawk Carse. 

Jerome : Welcome back ! 

Jensen : A good criticism ! 



Stubbs : Sure, an occasional cover by Weaso 

would l»e swell; but Browji certaiuly has not 
poor color values. He doesn’t make jarring con- 
trasts, as does Paul. True, there is a contrast 
of colors on the April cover but it isn’t a gaudy 
contrast. One exception: the January cover tea# 
terrible ! 

Lyman Martin : Thank you, Lyman. I said 

more in my reply to Welch than our editor; 
but. of course, there is a limit to the amount of 
back talk than can be printed. 

G. B. of Indiana : From the way in which 

you made your comparisons, it would appear 
that you do not hold Edgar Rice Burroughs 
very high in your estimation. Mr. Burroughs is 
both a fine writer and a swell fellow, as I have 
found out from past experience. 

Corwin Stickney : You may accept an af- 

firmative vote from me. A science editorial 
would i»e very welcome, but not if it did away 
with our editor’s present refreshing pep edi- 
torials. 

Mr. Eshback : You seem to be rather ve- 

hement for a science-fiction author. I enjoy 
your stories, though. 

Jamison ; I wouldn't say that Marchioni is 
actually sloppy. He does, however, go in for 
angles and wrinkles too much to suit me. 

To the Editor: The trimmed edges Htill knock 
roe over ! — Willis Conover, Jr., 280 Shepard 
Ave., Kenmore, New York. 



Cometears Runs ia Four Parts. 

Dear Editor : 

Ai>ril is f>ne of the very best issues ever pub- 
lished. At the Mountaine of Madneas was a 
g<M»d story, but I think that Lovecraft paid too 
much attention to small details. It was a very 
goml word picture of the strange beings who in- 
hnldted the Earth before humanity. 

The aiinounc*ement of The Cometeers was one 
of the best surprises we have had in a long 
time, especially since it is to be a sequel to that 
great story The Legion of Space, which did 
not seem to need one. I have no doubts but 
what some one will send In a complaint about 
the cover with its fine covering and no dis- 
figuring words ail over It. Child of the Starfi 
was a very fine sequel to Son of Old Faithful 
and all the other stories were good. 

E. M. Stubbs : I am very much afraid you 

are color blind when you say Brown’s covers 
are terrible. Better have your eyes examined. 

Carl Bennett : I agree with you on Strange 

City. It demands a sequel. 

The Comet eerB again ! If you, editor, stretch 
it to more than six parts. I’ll — well. I’ll wait 
for the rest of it with curses on my lips and 
impatience in iny heart. — Lyman Martin, C5 
Howe 8t., Marlboro, Massachusetts. 



Zsfl'f Science Weird Sometimes? 

My dear Editor : 

It does .seem that such a story ns The 
Chrymlie is hardly suited to such a splendid 
magazine as Astounding Stories. The Ghrysalia 
partakes of the occult: it is a sort of weird 
story. Astounding Stories should be strictly 
science-fiction. Truth is stranger than fiction, 
true — but the weird is not based upon science. 
The treatment of rays, bending them around 
an induced vacuum, may be improbable, but 
might be possible as other things. — Darwin Kel- 
logg Pavey, 1910 Chippewa St., New Orleans, 
Louisiana. 



Appearance Has Its Points, 

De.ar Editor : 

May I express my appreciation for the grow- 
ing dignity of your magazine? I can under- 
stand the attitude of U. W. Hall in the April 
Brass Tacks, which 1 have just received. In 



BRASS TACKS 



159 



fact, I have many times laughed at myself, told 
myself that appearance did not matter if I en- 
joyed contents. I make no secret of it to my 
friends — let their amusement fall where it will — 
that 1 read scieuce-hction way back when, as a 
kid in boarding school, I discovered this form 
of tictioii and had to hide it uud^r ihy coat 
because it looked like the trashy reading that 
it wasn’t. 

But, as an adult who has been engaged for 
several years as a research person under a psy- 
chiatrist — and therefore sensitive to what others 
might interpret as infantilism — may I point out 
that appearance does have its points? 

1 have long been embarrassed by tw’o things : 
one is the apparent immature level of fellow 
readers, Judging from the type of letters that 
have often been printed in the past — and that 
seems invariably to be the part of the magazine 
opened lirst when some acquaintance idly turns 
the pages : the other is by the cheap look of 
the magazine as a whole. . 

It is all very good to say that such criti- 
cism is superflcml, but if you bad had the sort 
of experience I had — of people jumping to the 
conclusion that your tastes were similar and 
bringing, impossible dime fiction to exchange for 
the magazine they’d found in your quarters, 
just because science-fiction magazines looked like 
the sort they read — you’d appreciate things like 
appearances, etc. 

in both respects, things have changed greatly 
In recent moiUhs. Your last (April) issue is in 
as good taste as to exterior appearances as it 
has long been as to contents. And, quite sud- 
denly in the last few months, you have been 
printing idlers from intelligent adults — peopie« 
who, judging from their letters, 1 should feel 
honored to know and with whom 1 should be 
honored to he identified. Nor does one feel 
less honored to have reading interests in com- 
mon with young people in high school, when, 
as in some cases, liiey seem alert, balanced, 
mentally mature. 

Joseph Watson appears to be that way. Too 
few, have, or keep, that experimental point of 
view and too many professors encourage it. I 
switched to psychology in college for the sole 
reason that the head of that department ad- 
mitted openly that the best of them were 
groping their way — and invited assistance in 
arriving at tentative conclusions. It’s great to 
be in on the solution to problems whose an- 
swers your sum*rior does not pretend to know. — 
W. K. Nemiored, Main St., Quincy, Illi- 

nois. 



On LovecraH and Merritt, 

Dear Mr. Tremaine : 

I don’t see why every one is making such a 
fuss about Strange City. In my opinion it was 
one of the run-of-tbe-mili adventure stories 
with a hazy theory of electrical life transfer 
which the author doesn’t really understand him- 
self. As for description, .Schachner far sur- 
passes Van Lome’s feeble efforts. I can find 
DO reasonable explanation for the popularity of 
the latter’s story. 

Concerning the origin of the clubs, one might 
think that last year’s epidemic would satisfy 
even the most fraternally-minded fan. 

1 agree with Mr. Miller that Astounding Sto- 
ries should reinstate these columns dealing 
with obscure announcements of interest to sci- 
ence-fiction fans. This would serve as a science 
department which Astounding Stories has long 
been in need of. 

As to the perfection of Moon Pool I beg to 
differ. In my opinion. Skylark of Space by 
Smith far outranked Merritt’s work. However, 
Mr. Jensen has chosen an apt comparison. Mer- 
ritt and Lovccraft are the outstanding con- 
temporary fantastic authors. It is only fitting 
that the former’s work be used as a yardstick 
by which to measure the latter’s. 

I personally prefer Lovecraft to Merritt, but 
I concede the superiority of Moon Pool over At 
the Mountains of Matiness. The latter story 
really calls for a sequel, dealing with the 
Starkweatber-Moore Expedition. 



In closing, allow me to compliment your 
artist Brown on the best cover of the year. It 
gives my eyes a rest. — Alan J. Aisenstein, 891 
Academy Hd., Woodmere, New York. 



We Do Try to Please. 

Dear Editor : 

Aiiotner delightful issue of Astounding! Just 
think! After reading Mathemotiva a couple of 
times I decided it needed a sequel. After think- 
ing the matter over I concluded that it needed 
a sequel more than any other story. And what 
to my wondering eyes should appear but Mathe- 
mativa PLusl 

I am glad to see the conclusion to At the 
Mountains of Madness for. reasons that would . 
not be pleasant to Mr. Lovecraft. The new 
serial is much better. Eando Binder did a bet-, 
ter job there than on Ships that Come Pack. 

The Cosmo Trap was a nice story with two 
Very new ideas. Chiid of the Stars is pretty 
good, but Gailuo is capable of better yarns. 
While the title suited it, it would have suited 
other tales better. I liked Outlaws on CalUsto 
even though it resembles Redemption Cairn. 
The White Adventure, 1 am sorry to say, is in- 
ferior to Strange City. While you’re still in the 
mood for sequels, Mr. Tremaine, how about one 
for The Chrysnlist Such a swell story is pub- 
lished at best every two years. 

This letter isn’t much but, next time. I’ll , 
have a real idea. — Uobert Thompson, Upper 
Da rby , Pen n sy 1 va ii ia . 



Bricks in Plenty. 

Dear Editor : 

I hope you take the inclosed “Irish confetti” 
in the spirit in which it Is given. It has to do 
with the March and April issues which, to put 
it mildly, were fur below your average. 

First, why in the name of solence-tictiou did 
you ever print such a story as At the Mountains 
of Madne.H8 by Lovecratl ? Are you in such 
dire straits that you must print this kind of 
drivel? In the first place, this story does not 
belong in Astounding Stories, for there is no 
science in it at all. You even recuinnumd it 
with the exi>ression that it Avas a fine word 
picture, and for that I will never forgive you. 

If such stories as this — of two people scaring 
themselves half to death by lo<»king at the carv- 
ings in some ancient ruins, ami being chased 
by something that even the author can’t de- 
scribe, and full of imitterings about nameless 
horrors, such as the windowless solids with five 
dimensions, Yog-Solhoth. etc. — are what is to 
constitute the future yarns of Astounding Sto- 
ries, then heaven help the cause of science-fic- 
tion. I know that it is your policy to print more 
of the whimsy type of science-fiction than of 
the type having science as a base but, at least, 
yon don’t have to wish this bunk on us. 

The second brick is aimed at The Chrysalis for 
being almost as absurd as At the Mountains of 
Madness. All that I can say is that a chrysalis 
of this nature would be more likely to be de- 
stroyed than saved. Custom is to bury or burn 
the dea<l, not to wonder how preservation was 
assured before the time of man, which, after 
all, is quite recent. Too bad that the “thing’’ 
didn’t kill the author along with his friends 
with the coiisoqiiences of the story. 

All the other stories in March and April, with 
the possible exception of Spawn of Eternal 
Thought on which I reserve judgment, are run- 
of-the-mill stories not worth commenting on. 

May I call your attention to the fact that it 
is a year since you published a story by E. E. 
Smith or John W. (jampbell, Jr.? How about 
another of these for those of us who like this 
type? 

You may print this letter or not as you see 
fit. I feel that my bricks were justified and as- 
fiure you that when your stories are good you 



160 



ASTOUNDING STORIES 



may expect rosea from this same source. — 
Cleveland C. Soper, Jr., 381 N. Firestone Houle* 
Tard, Akron, Ohio. 



Brass Tacks Better Than Stories? 

Dear Editor : 

This is the first time I have written to your 
muK'azine although I have been reading it since 
it first came out. 

The cover of the April issue was swell. Con- 
gratulations ! Spatrn of Eternal Thought started 
off pretty well. Child of the Stars did not live 
up to expectations.' Outlaws on Callista was 
good, but it had a plot as old as the hills. The 
three short stories were all good. Brass Tacks 
is the best part of the magazine. The trimmed 
edges sure make Astounding look swell. — Larry 
Maran, 210 W. 101 St., New York, New York. 



But We Do Invite Criticism. 

Dear Mr. Tremaine : 

First of all. I would like to ask you not to 
publish any letters that merely list likes and 
dislikes. It does absolutely no good to say 
whether each story in a particular issue is bad, 
marvelous or just so*so. 

The Ai)rii issue was an improvement, but 
the March and February Brass Tacks contained 
dozens of letters saying the same thing. I 
might as well add my congratulations for the 
smo4)th edges, lor they ce.rtainly are w’elconie. 
.lack Darrow’s one-word letter was quite amus- 
ing. 

The loss of Stanley G. Weinbaum is a serious 
thing. He will not be replaced for many years, 
in my opinion. The idea of publishing his best 
works in hook form is very good, but it will 
be hard to say w’hich of his stories should be 
left out, all of them being so much better than 
the usual run. 

Authors we need more or some of are: Man- 
ning. Vincent, Keller, Flagg, Pratt, and Philip 
J. Hartel. 

The cover for the April issue was really good, 
much better than the last two. It reminded me 
of the August. Ih34. cover — the one for The 
SkuUtrk of Valeron. One little thing I like 
about the cover is the color of the words. As- 
tounding Stories. It is never the same two 
months in a row. The yellow-on-black against 
the blue background is very effective. 

The best recent stories have been : Mathe- 
maticn, wdth’its bewildering science; Entropy, 
much better than most of Schachner’s yarns be- 
eau.se there was no war in it : Child of the Stars, 
superbly told by Gallon. The latter is greatly 
improving and in time he may come to fill 
Stanley Weinbaum’s place. The return of Well- 
man is a great thing: his story was excellent 
up to the last page, but the end w’as childish 
and very poor. Also, your short stories have 
boon good lately. — Hiehnrd B. Crninwell, 6 Up- 
land Ud.. Baltimore, Maryland. 



Reaction on Tin. 



Dear Editor: 

Having read .Toseph Watson’s letter in your 
April issue, I wish to reply to him through Brass 
Tacks, that I partially agree with his discus- 
sion upon “conventional science.’’ However, 
there is a part of it in which our views conflict 
sharply. 

First, my agreement: I agree with you, Mr. 
Watson, in stating that an instructor in sci- 
ence should not tench scientific theory as fact 
merely because it is stated as such in a text- 
book. To do this would he contrary to scien- 
tific methods which said teacher should apply. 

Science consists of forming theories from cer- 



tain observations, and when these theories fail 
to comply with further observations or experi- 
ments, they are abandoned and new theories 
evolved. In this way facts are sometimes syn- 
thesized from theories. All scientific progress 
is based upon this method, and when cme indi- 
vidual attempts to disprove an observed fact 
with an incomplete, imaginative hypothesis based 
on partial observation, he is no longer a sci- 
entist. 

Now let us consider the part with which I do 
not agree : You. Mr. Watson, stated that sul- 

phuric acid would not react with tin, and used 
this fact to partially ^ove your point a'gainst 
conventional science, lou stated further that, 
without special treatment, you experimentally 
proved that they would not react. It is with 
this statement that our experiments conflict. 

To prove that they would react under certain 
conditions without special treatment, I went into 
my home laboratory and proceeded to place a 
small piece of C. P. tin in 2cc. of C. P. sul- 
phuric acid and observed no reaction. So far 
we agree, but upon heating the contents of the 
test tube a violent reaction took place with a 
rapid evolution of sulphur dioxide. Thus prov- 
ing my contention that, experimentally, tin will 
react with concentrated sulphuric acid under 
certain conditions without special treatment to 
either substance involved in the action. 

I would be glad if you yourself Would re- 
peat my experiment and communicate your re- 
sults to me, either through Brass Tacks or by 
personal letter. — John R. Miller,- Jr., Millheim, 
Pennsylvania. 



An Annual Letter, 

Dear Editor : 

I haven’t written for about n year, so I 
thought I’d congratulate you on your steady 
improvement. You’re brought Astounding Sto- 
ries up until it’s the finest in the field. The last 
few issues seem to prove this. The Isotope Men, 
Strange City, Matheinatica, Entropy, Child of 
the Stars are all science-fiction of the highest 
type. Keep it up and your circulation will never 
drop. 

Now let’s get down to Brass Tacks : The 

April cover was fine ; I like a simplp scene like 
this. 

Child of the Stars was worthy to stand be- 
side its two predecessors. The Chrysalis Just 
didn’t appeal to me. White Adventure was a 
well-written, interesting story, built around a 
good plot. The Cosmo Trap was all right. 
Outlaws on Callisto reminded me of The Red 
Peri. 

At the Mountains of Madness was poor, until 
the last Installment when it ended only fair. I 
would never recognize Lovecraft in the mediocre 
tale, — George R. Griffin, 1 Monument St., Port- 
land. Maine. 



Lightning Again. 

Dear Editor : 

Matheinatica by Fearn was interesting as well 
as thought-provoking. Just keep up the good 
standard of stories and I'm satisfied. What is 
the mattot with the idiots howling for Paul? 
Great Jupiter, I think Brown has him by the 
ears, really. 

Will you kindly remind Robert L. Harder, Jr., 
Berwich, Pa., to go back to his science classes 
because such unfounded correcting of a posi- 
tive statement as occurred in Mr. Montague’s 
story about the lightning going up from the 
ground not being natural. It isn’t natural be- 
cause lightning travels from the clouds to the 
ground. It is the ionized molecules of air that 
travel up to the clouds, forming a path for the 
current to come down. Check up on your sci- 
ence and radio theories. Harder. Rest of luck 
to your magazlne.s.— C’harles Shipley. 1207 Park 
St.. McKeesport, Pennsylvania. 

AST— 10 




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